
0 





CopighlN?. 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



5 " 







t 







%• .■ 




12 - - \5S^1 


A 


\ 


I 



PHOEBE 


PHOEBE 


A NOVEL 


BY 

MRS. OSMOND YOUNG OWINGS 

*1 


NEW YORK 

THE COSMOPOLITAN PRESS 
1912 - 




Copyright, 1912, by 
Mrs. Osmond Young O wings 


fiM 

C^CI.A312753 


BOOK I 


THE EMPTY NEST 


Look to the blowing Rose about us — “Lo, 
Laughing,” she says, “into the world I blow, 

At once the silken tassel of my Purse 
Tear, and its Treasure! on the Garden throw.” 

— Omar Khayyam. 




t 


1 



I 




I 


PHOEBE 


CHAPTER I 

The afternoon sun was touching the old house 
and its encircling trees with a golden glory, and 
sending long shafts of light among the tall pines 
that formed a primeval grove on the right. Far 
down the stately aisles of this grove could be heard 
the lazy tinkle of a cow-bell and the voices of chil- 
dren shouting to one another. On the wide, vine- 
covered piazza sat a woman, sweet and serene, darn- 
ing stockings. 

Suddenly, around the corner of the house raced 
four children, — three boys and a girl. The girl, with 
fluttering skirts and twinkling feet, her eyes and 
cheeks aflame, was considerably in advance of the 
boys, who came clattering and panting after her. 

“Mother, Clay says I shall not ride Charley for 
the mail. He says he is going himself !” 

“Mother, Phoeb said she was going no matter 
who said No! Tell her she can’t go. Father 
said ” 


7 


8 


PHOEBE 


“Mother, Phoeb boxed Clay’s ears, and stuck out 
her tongue at Bruce and me!” 

“Mother, she says she doesn’t care what father 
says, she is going to ride Charley for the mail.” 
Bruce Middleton, a fine-looking, manly boy of four- 
teen, walked up as he spoke. 

“Gently, gently, children,” said Mrs. Middleton, 
as she looked up from her work. “Suppose you, 
Bruce, tell me exactly what is the trouble.” 

“It was just this, mother; Phoeb said she was 
going to ride Charley for the mail, and Clay said 
she shouldn’t, and tried to hold ” 

“Then she slapped ” 

“Hush, Clay; Bruce is speaking.” 

“Then she slapped Clay and stuck out her tongue 
at A1 and me, and flew.” 

The boy finished speaking, then cast a roguish 
look at his sister, who was standing, with downcast 
eyes, making a geometric design in the white sand 
of the walk with the bare toes of a shapely little foot. 

“Oh, well 1 you boys mustn’t be hard on your little 
sister. Remember, she is a girl, and gentlemen are 
always gentle to girls and women.” 

“But, mother; father said we mustn’t ride Charley 
unless he was here. You know the time Phoeb 
would go over in the pasture to put back the young 
bird that had fallen out of the nest, when father 
said none of us must go over there. He was so 
angry with us for letting her, and said the black-and- 
white bull might have killed her,” cried Clay. 


PHOEBE 


9 


^‘Were you thinking of my disobeying father, or 
of riding Charley yourself?” Phoebe spoke angrily, 
and pouted out her red lips at Clay. 

“Oh, my daughter!” said Mrs. Middleton; “try 
to be more gentle with your brothers. How can 
you expect them to treat you gently, when you are 
rude and rough to them?” 

Phoebe gave a surreptitious glance at the three 
boys, who were looking at her disapprovingly, and 
burst into a merry, contagious laugh, in which they 
all joined. Even Mrs. Middleton could not resist a 
little smile of amusement as she looked into the 
flushed, roguish face of the girl, and into the 
chagrined faces of the boys, who laughed, it is true, 
but in a half-hearted way. 

Just then the sound of wheels was heard, and far 
down the road could be seen Dr. Middleton’s buggy. 
In a flash Phoebe was off to meet him, her little 
bare feet skimming the sandy road like a flight of 
swallows. 

When the buggy came into full view the slim 
little figure was sitting very straight by her father’s 
side, and Phoebe was holding the reins in her slender 
brown hands with the assured ease of one who had 
driven ever since she had to be lifted up to, and held 
in, the seat. 

“That’s the way Phoeb does,” said Clay discon- 
tentedly. “She gets us all into trouble, then she 
laughs and runs off to father. I’ll bet he lets her 
ride Charley for the mail after all.” 


lO 


PHOEBE 


Phoebe waved the whip gaily as the buggy passed 
the house on the way to the stable ; and sure enough, 
in a few minutes she passed again on Charley’s 
back, it having been but the work of an instant to 
cover up her bare feet and legs with the long, full 
gingham riding-skirt, which hung behind the door in 
the harness-room. 

‘‘I wish Henry wouldn’t indulge her so much,” 
said Mrs. Middleton gently, as Phoebe passed, with 
a gay smile and a kiss of the hand to the group on 
the piazza. 

“It seems to me that you children get to be more 
and more of a problem as you get older.” She said 
this to Bruce who was sitting on the handrail, with 
his feet caught in the pickets, while he leaned as 
far back as he could without falling out. 

She looked at him with gentle if reproachful eyes 
as she spoke, and Bruce reluctantly righted himself. 

Dr. Middleton now came in, and drawing up a 
chair sat and watched Mrs. Middleton with loving 
eyes as she neatly darned a hole in the knee of Al’s 
trousers. 

Less than an hour had passed, when far down the 
road could be heard the quick thud of a horse’s 
galloping hoofs, and presently they saw Charley 
come swinging into the avenue at a full canter. Even 
at that distance they could hear a gay voice sing- 
ing: 


PHOEBE 


II 


“A Spanish cavalier stood in his retreat, 

“And on his guitar played a tune, dear; 

“The music so sweet he’d ofttimes repeat, — 

“The blessing of my country, in you, dear.” 

Mrs. Middleton looked up anxiously, but the 
doctor was watching the girl with admiring eyes. 

“I wish you wouldn’t let her ride Charley, Henry. 
I don’t think he is safe,” she said. 

‘Well, maybe not,” the doctor answered, “for 
one who does not know how to ride, but she is a 
true Middleton, and I never saw one yet that didn’t 
know how to ride.” 

‘Well, but didn’t you tell her only this morning 
that she couldn’t ride Charley?” 

“Yes, but when I did that I reckoned without 
Phoeb. She made me repeal the law,” and the 
doctor laughed tenderly at the remembrance of his 
little daughter’s blandishments. 

“That is what I mind,” burst out Clay, from the 
lounge where he was sprawling. “She makes every- 
body do as she likes except me ! And she slaps me.” 

He spoke ruefully, at the same time giving his 
cheek a soothing rub. Clay and Phoebe were twins, 
so he felt a special proprietorship in her, and the 
duty of controlling her lay heavy on his soul. 

“Anyway, don’t let her hear us discussing her,” 
said Mrs. Middleton, as she looked up and saw the 
little girl coming toward them. 

Mrs. Middleton watched her with tender, wistful 


12 


PHOEBE 


eyes as she came in and Phoebe rewarded her mother 
with a light kiss on the top of the head as she passed. 

Then, going to her father, she perched on the arm 
of his chair. With her two firm, slim thumbs she 
stretched his mouth from ear to ear, and then kissed 
him on the exact center of his distended lips. With 
another deft tweak she made his hair stand straight 
up in the middle of his forehead; then, snuggling 
down into his arms, she heaved a great sigh of ex- 
quisite content. 


CHAPTER II 


Dr. Henry Clay Middleton, who had been left an 
orphan at an early age, had had but few advantages 
of education. Having a fine mind, however, he had 
been able to make the most of such opportunities as 
had come to him. When twenty-five years old he 
had found himself the possessor of a fine family 
name, a strong body, and a diploma from the best 
medical college in the south. 

The uncle with whom he had made his home hav- 
ing left a large family of sons and daughters unpro- 
vided for. Dr. Middleton had felt that he should be- 
come independent as soon as possible, so he settled 
down at once to a country practice. Handsome, 
with agreeable manners, he had soon become a social 
favorite in his community, and for miles around no 
merry-making was complete without him. 

In the course of a year he had married Miss Alice 
McClintock, the eldest child and only daughter of 
the Honorable Robert Bruce McClintock, a sturdy 
Scotch-Irishman, in whose veins flowed the blood 
of Covenanter and martyr, and who even had 
boasted an ancestor slain on Flodden Field. After 
the straitest sect of the Scotch-Irish, he had been 
reared a Presbyterian. 


13 


14 


PHOEBE 


His daughter Alice had been carefully reared in 
the same austere faith. Her marriage with young 
Dr. Middleton had promised most favorably, for, 
besides being a woman of fine intelligence and much 
sweetness and strength of character, she owned a 
fine property, which she had inherited from her 
mother. 

Just one day from the day that they were married, 
however, the first gun was fired at Sumter. With 
trembling hands she had buckled on her young hus- 
band’s sword, and, with white lips, she had bidden 
him go where his country called. For four years she 
had watched and prayed and waited, and then the 
smiles had come back to her face and the light to her 
eyes, for he whom she loved was safe home from the 
war. The silver never left her hair, however, after 
those years of horror and dread. 

Dr. Middleton and Mrs. Middleton were finan- 
cially much better off than many of their neighbors, 
for the greater part of Alice’s property had been in 
bonds, so that, when peace finally was assured, they 
had found themselves in a position to help those that 
were more unfortunate than themselves. This duty 
they had faithfully performed, and the whole coun- 
try-side had known that wherever there was need 
the doctor and Alice would help to relieve it. 

Thus they had lived for eight years, childless. 
Then Bruce came, then Clay and Phoebe, and then 
Allison. Alice’s heart and hands were full then, 
but she had always found time to help the sick and 


PHOEBE 


15 


the poor. The doctor had practiced for the whole 
county, and had been beloved (and ill-paid) by black 
and white alike. This was the state of the family 
at the time that our story opens. 

The years pass quickly when one is young. Our 
next peep at Phoebe Middleton shall be three years 
later. 

On a cold, rainy afternoon in early March, the 
boys were in the barn, helping to shuck corn for the 
horses and tussling with one another. The doctor 
had gone on a long drive to see a patient across the 
river. Mrs. Middleton was in the pantry, helping 
to make the rolls for tea, while Phoebe was curled up 
kitten-wise on the end of a very shabby sofa in the 
sitting-room, reading by the fading western light, 
so engrossed with her book that she did not hear her 
mother as she came into the room. 

“What are you reading, daughter?” Mrs. Mid- 
dleton asked. 

“Oh, mother; please don’t interrupt me. I have 
just got to where the Black Knight appears on the 
field, and I just must see how it turns out.” Phoebe’s 
voice still had some of the shrillness of childhood, 
but in it were soft flutings and an undercurrent of 
sweet sounds that suggested the tones of a harp. 

“But, child, you will put out your eyes. There is 
not light enough to read by. Where did you get 
Ivanhoe, anyway? And who said you might read 
the story?” 

“I found it up-stairs in one of the old boxes of 


i6 


PHOEBE 


books that belonged to Grandfather Middleton. I 
asked father, and he said I might read it.” Phoebe 
rose as she spoke and came forward into the glow 
of the open fire that was blazing on the hearth. As 
she rose, one wondered at her extreme height and 
slenderness. She carried herself with the freedom 
and grace of a young deer. 

She laid the book wistfully on Mrs. Middleton’s 
lap; then, throwing herself on the rug in front of the 
fire, she laid her head against her mother’s knee, 
and softly pulled both her mother’s hands until they 
rested against her own fair cheeks. 

Thus invited, Mrs. Middleton softly stroked the 
velvety face and the shining plaits of soft hair. As 
Phoebe lay thus in the glow of the firelight, she 
had changed considerably since we saw her last. 
Her hair which had been then cut short like a boy’s 
was now bound around her head in two heavy 
shining plaits. Her face was delicately formed, with 
straight nose and firm chin, but was too thin for 
beauty, and the great soft brown eyes that looked 
out from it made it seem too small. Her complexion 
was the rich tan that comes from perfect health and 
exposure to the sun and air, while her cheeks and 
lips were a soft, clear pink. In the middle of the 
firm little chin was a deep dimple. Her form was 
tall, but undeveloped, and was only beginning to 
show the soft curves of womanhood. 

'T don’t see why Presbyterians can’t do things. 


PHOEBE 17 

mother! Why can’t we read novels and dance and 
have a good time?” Phoebe said. 

Poor Mrs. Middleton sighed. This was a question 
that in one form or another she was having to an- 
swer very often these days, and she found it increas- 
ingly hard as the children grew older. She was not 
sorry to be interrupted and smiled brightly at Clay 
and Al, who at this moment came tramping in, with 
muddy boots and tousled hair. Even Clay had 
caught some of blue-eyed, red-haired Al’s contagion 
of wild spirits, and they came in panting and breath- 
less from a race from the barn. 

“Run, boys,” said Mrs. Middleton, “and get your- 
selves ready for tea. You know your Aunt Allison 
and your father will be here presently, and we 
wouldn’t like her to think you were rude and rough.” 

The boys started to leave the room, but studious 
Clay, catching sight of the book on his mother’s 
knee, caught it up and said tauntingly: “Ivanhoe! 
I’ll bet it’s about lords and ladies and love, or Miss 
Phoeb wouldn’t be reading it.” 

Phoebe bit her lip and remained silent, but Mrs. 
Middleton spoke. 

“Oh, well,” she said, ‘‘Imnhoe is a standard novel 
and it will not hurt you to read it. I don’t know 
what Aunt Allison will say, though. She is very 
strict, you know.” 

“Aunt Al thinks children don’t want to do any- 
thing but study the Shorter Catechism/' said Al, his 


i8 


PHOEBE 


eyes dancing with mischief, “and I don’t know how 
we are going to keep her fooled while she is here.” 

“You bet she has known you a long time, so you 
needn’t try to fool her,” said Clay. 

“Everybody knows who Aunt A1 likes best in 
this house,” said Phoebe, rising from her recumbent 
position on the rug with a sudden swift spring. 
“A1 doesn’t fool her by pretending that he is good, 
so there is no need for Clay and me to worry our- 
selves.” 

“Anyway, children, I would rather you didn’t read 
Ivanhoe while she is here. I don’t wish you to hide 
anything you do, but ” 

“But . Little mother is afraid of Aunt Al,” 

said Allison, drawing down his chin and speaking 
very pompously. 

At this they all laughed uproariously, and Mrs. 
Middleton was perforce compelled to join in the 
mirth. She drove the young people from the room 
to get ready to see their aunt. 

Finding that she still had a little time to spare, 
she lighted the lamp and sat down to write a letter, 
which she directed to Mr. Robert Bruce McClintock 
Middleton, at the University of Virginia. Then 
she lay back in her chair, and, with closed eyes and 
clasped hands, prayed out of the depths of her 
mother’s heart for her first-born son, who was pass- 
ing his first winter away from home. 


CHAPTER III 


Five years have sped swiftly by since we last 
saw the Middletons. They never had depended 
wholly on the doctor’s practice for a living, for he 
also had always been a large planter. The price of 
cotton was very low these days, and had it not been 
for the little fortune Mrs. Middleton inherited from 
her mother, it would have been hard for them to 
give the children an education. The greater part 
of this modest sum had been expended in that way. 
Now there was little left, and times were hard. 

Bruce was studying medicine at his father’s alma 
mater. Clay, with his earnest eyes and gentle 
manner, had offered himself as a missionary to the 
lepers, and was studying theology at Princeton. 

Phoebe, who had been three years at a college in 
Virginia, now had a voice that rivaled the mocking- 
bird’s for sweetness and power. Each Sunday she 
now stood in her place in the choir of the old coun- 
try church, and poured such a flood of melody into 
the hymns that “How firm a foundation,” and 
“Jesus, lover of my soul,” and “O Love that will not 
let me go” had a new meaning for at least half of 
the young male members of the congregation. 

19 


20 


PHOEBE 


Her beauty was something to delight the beholder, 
its chief charm being in the exquisite spirituality of 
her expression. She had passed through a deep and 
tender religious experience when Clay, her beloved 
twin brother, had decided to leave all at the call of 
his Master. 

Dear romping, saucy, curly-haired A1 was the only 
one left to be sent to college, and he was much more 
interested in being the best shot, the best rider, the 
best swimmer, and the best baseball pitcher in the 
county than he was in going to the University. He 
was immensely popular with every person in the 
county. The negroes for miles around worshiped 
him. 

A cloud no bigger than a man’s hand had arisen 
in the fair horizon of the home, and already its 
shadow trailed across the pathway of the occupants. 
Each day the silvery sheen deepened on Mrs. Middle- 
ton’s hair, and each day the doctor stooped more 
and looked older as he climbed in and out of his 
well-worn buggy. 

Bruce was all that heart could wish. He was 
manly, earnest, intelligent, putting forth the best 
effort of his young manhood in acquiring his profes- 
sion so that he might practice with his father and 
gradually take his place in the county. 

Clay was earnest, pure, spiritual, with the beauti- 
ful face of a young saint. He gazed undaunted on 
the future, confidently expecting to die the death 
of a martyr on Leper’s Island. 


PHOEBE 


21 


Somehow Alice and Henry Middleton could never 
speak much of Clay even when alone. When his 
name was mentioned they just reached blindly for 
each other’s hands and held them very tight 

Phoebe was their darling; mettlesome and high- 
spirited, but sound and good, the most beautiful girl 
in the county. Time and time again she could have 
married, and many a man had driven away from the 
doctor’s gate \vith a wound that was hard to heal 
hidden in his heart. But Phoebe was hard to win, 
and of all the lovers that came and went no one had 
ever said that she cared. 

In her sweet, imperious way she loved to tease 
and to flout. Admiration and flattery were as nat- 
ural to her as the breath of her nostrils, but of love 
and marriage she never had had a serious thought. 
She had always been a belle; from the time when 
Dr. Middleton used to lift her high on his shoulders 
and stride along, with the boys and dogs at his heels, 
her wish had been law. It was small wonder that she 
had grown up expecting admiration and love, and 
she was in no wise disconcerted because she got it. 

But Allison, broad-shouldered, merry-hearted 
Allison, the last baby to lay his curly head on his 
mother’s breast and look with innocent, trustful eyes 
into her own, was wild. 

Such was the state of affairs in the Middleton 
family, when, one afternoon, just as the October 
fires were beginning to look attractive and feel com- 


22 


PHOEBE 


fortable, Dr. Middleton came in rather earlier than 
usual, bringing letters. 

“Two for Alice. One from Bruce and one from 
Clay. Two for Phoeb. One from Aunt Allison and 
one from Clay. Clay doesn’t think he has written 
home, no matter who the letter is for, unless he 
has written to Phoeb too.” The doctor gave the 
girl’s dimpled chin a loving pinch as he spoke. 

“Nobody writes to me; I am nobody’s darling,” 
said Al, who was lounging in a big chair by the 
window. 

Then going to the piano, while his mother and 
sister busied themselves with their letters, he struck 
a few careless chords, and commenced to sing in a 
strong, clear, young baritone : 

“Nobody’s darling on earth, 

“Heaven will merciful be; 

“I am nobody’s darling, — 

“Nobody cares for me.” 

! 

The doctor and Mrs. Middleton exchanged smiles 
over the top of the letter and the weekly paper, but 
Phoebe, less polite, put her slim hands to her ears 
and cried, “O Al, have mercy! You won’t deserve 
to be anybody’s darling, not even in heaven, if you 
don’t stop that noise I” 

Thus adjured, the young man whirled on the 
piano-stool and snatched Aunt Allison’s letter out 
of Phoebe’s hand. A lively scuffle ensued, in which 
his red, curly hair was well pulled, and Phoebe got 


PHOEBE 


23 


back her letter by saying, “Please,” a word that 
never came very naturally from her rosy lips. 

Finally, peace being restored. Dr. Middleton 
asked, “What is the news from the boys?” He 
reached out his hand for the letters. 

Presently Phoebe exclaimed, “Mother, Aunt Alli- 
son wants me to come to Melrose and spend the 
winter with her. She says she has not been well 
and feels the need of a young, cheerful companion. 

But here is the letter : read it for your- 
self.” 

“If she wants a young and cheerful companion,” 
said Al, “I don’t see why she didn’t ask me. I am 
younger than you, and as for cheerful spirits, why 
all she would have to do would be to turn the crank 
and out would pop smiles and sunshine equaling 
any demand.” 

“I don’t see how we can let Phoeb go,” said Dr. 
Middleton. 

Just then the tea bell rang, and Phoebe ran to see 
that everything was all right. 

Then they came in, Allison with his arm around 
his mother’s waist. 

During the simple meal, there was much discus- 
sion pro and con, and it was finally decided that 
Phoebe should go. Both parents were reluctant to 
let her go, however, for they felt that it was a 
dividing of the ways, and that home would never be 
quite the same to the young girl again. 


CHAPTER IV 


Miss Allison McClintock was the only sister of the 
Honorable Robert Bruce McClintock, and Alice 
Middleton’s only aunt. She had a fine family name, 
intelligence, and an independent fortune; and, not- 
withstanding her strict religious views, was held in 
high social esteem in the city of Melrose, where she 
lived. 

It had been Alice Middleton’s misfortune to lose 
her mother when she was quite young, and it was to 
this aunt that she owed her careful training. Now 
that Miss Allison was getting old and was not well, 
Alice and Henry Middleton both felt that it was 
their pleasure to lend Phoebe to her for the winter, 
even if in so doing they were themselves sorely 
bereft. She wished Phoebe to come up early in 
November, before winter set in, so there was much 
planning and contriving to get together a modest 
wardrobe, suitable and becoming, yet costing as little 
as possible, for cotton was selling very low, and 
the people were having a hard time to make ends 
meet. Of course the doctor’s bill was the last to be 
paid. 

Dr. Middleton sighed as, putting a scanty roll of 
24 


PHOEBE 


25 


bills into Mrs. Middleton’s hand, he said: ‘‘Make 
that go as far as you can, Alice. Times are pretty 
tight this year.” 

Phoebe had ridden Dexter over to the country 
store to make some simple purchase, but A1 who 
was present, said : 

“I wish father would let me take out some bills 
for him. I’ll bet I would get hold of some money. 
I don’t like Phoeb to go to Aunt Allison’s looking 
like a last year’s bird-nest.” A1 thrust his hands 
deep into his pockets and looked very business-like 
and imposing. 

“You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip, my son, 
and the people just haven’t got it, so there’s no use 
to press them. I go among them every day, and I 
know. At the present price of cotton I don’t see how 
they live.” 

“Well, Phoebe would be the very last person in 
the world to distress them, if she never got any 
clothes,” said Mrs. Middleton. “The child certainly 
has a tender heart. She does not seem to think 
much of how she looks.” 

“She doesn’t have to,” said Al, “but don’t you 
tell her I said that. It mightn’t be good for her 
equilibrium. Well as I know her, I don’t think I 
ever mentioned the fact in her hearing.” 

His parents laughed at his boyish attempt at wit, 
and just then Phoebe came in from the hall, still 
wearing her plain dark riding-habit and looking 
radiant. 


26 


PHOEBE 


Her hair, loosened by exercise, fell in a soft, dark 
mass over her forehead and neck, while all the little 
soft curling tendrils were sparkling with the rain- 
drops that had commenced to fall. At her heels, with 
his nose in her hand, followed Bluff, the old Irish 
setter. 

“A letter for A1 this time,” she said, tossing to 
him a letter that had a business-like look. 

“Who is writing to you on that kind of paper, 
Allison?” asked Mrs. Middleton, looking up appre- 
hensively. 

The boy was so engrossed that he did not hear. 
Presently he looked up gravely and handed the letter 
to his father. 

“What is it, Allison? Why don’t you speak?” 
cried Mrs. Middleton, her heart full of apprehension 
that she could not explain. 

Phoebe with frank curiosity, walked over to her 
father’s side and looked over his shoulder, while he 
read aloud the letter, dated October 6, and written 
from St. Louis, to Mr. Allison McC. Middleton : 

Dear Sir: 

You will doubtless be surprised at getting a letter from me, 
but I have had the misfortune to lose the jockey that bunched 
my string of horses when I was in your part of the world 
last winter. I remember being struck with your knowledge 
of horseflesh when I talked to you, and I am now writing to 
see if you will come out and take the vacant place. 

I know your folks will not stand for it, so, if you decide 
to come and need any money, let me know. 

It is interesting work and good pay, and a man who cares 


PHOEBE 


27 


for horses is sure to like it. We gather a bunch of horses 
out here, then take them east to sell. A man gets to see some- 
thing of the world, and puts something to his wad at the 
same time. I am in St. Louis now, but I’ll be at El Paso, 
Texas, by the end of the week. Either write to me or meet 
me there by October 20. 

I can promise you $80 a month, to start with, and a share 
in our profits, if you invest with me. 

Hoping to get a favorable reply, I am. 

Yours, 

Address: Jacob McGuire. 

104 Franklin St., 

El Paso, Texas. 


The doctor read the letter slowly through, then 
turned it over and examined it from all sides. 

“Who in the world is Jacob McGuire, and what 
do you know of him?” he finally asked. 

“O father, let me go! I don’t want to go to 
college, and I love horses, and times are so hard. It 
will be a help to you and ” 

“You seem to forget, Allison,” it was very seldom 
the doctor called him Allison, “that you have not 
yet answered my question. Who is Jacob McGuire, 
and where did you meet him ?” 

“I met him over in King’s Quarter last winter and 
talked to him lots of times. He wanted to buy 
Dexter, but I told him he belonged to Phoeb.” 

“The idea of a Middleton being a jockey,” cried 
Phoebe. “Why, the man must be crazy! Family not 
stand for it ! I should think not, indeed ! A Middle- 
ton a jockey!” 


28 


PHOEBE 


Alice Middleton now spoke for the first time, 
and though her voice trembled with suppressed emo- 
tion, she said: 

“Hush, Phoebe, you only add to my distress. 
Now, Allison, my son, tell us exactly who the man 
is, and why you wish to go with him?” 

Despite her effort at self-control, her voice failed, 
and her lips trembled as she ceased speaking. 

“Mother, mother! do not cry,” begged Phoebe. 
“A1 will not go. Oh, Al, tell her you will not go! 
You know you wouldn’t be a jockey!” 

But Al sat very still, looking at the floor, in con- 
strained silence. He did not reassure his mother, 
and this very fact showed how his boyish inclination 
had been spurred by the proposal. Far into the night 
they sat, talking to, and arguing with, the boy. The 
toast and tea grew cold, untasted, on the table. 

Finally Alice arose stiffly, like an old woman, and 
Phoebe followed her softly from the room. 

Late that night Dr. Middleton issued his decree, 
and in his family his decision was always accepted 
as final. 

“You are a minor, Allison, and as such I decline 
to let you go. It is useless to argue further, as it 
will be a waste of breath.” 

“I don’t think you are quite fair to me, father. 
I am eighteen years old. I think I am old enough to 
know my own mind,” said the boy sullenly. 

“Old enough to know your own mind ? Why, you 


PHOEBE 


29 


are scarcely more than a child! No, sir; unless you 
see fit to choose as I think best, I’ll choose for you. 
You shall not go 1” The doctor arose in his agitation 
and strode up and down the room, pushing the chairs 
violently out of his way as he walked. 

The boy arose presently and, saying good-night, 
left the room. 

All the next week he was very gentle and loving 
with his mother and sister and to his father. He 
seemed anxious to make amends for his seeming 
disrespect. 

But ten days after the receipt of the letter from 
McGuire A1 disappeared. He mailed the following 
note to his mother, from a western town: 


Dear Mother: 

I think I am old enough to decide, so I came anyway. 
Give dearest love to father and Phoeb. Will write. 
Devotedly, 


Allison. 


Henry and Alice Middleton received the tidings in 
silence, but Phoebe knew that theirs was a wound 
that would never heal. She wished to give up going 
to Melrose, but the doctor insisted that the plan 
should be carried out. Early in November, amid 
many kisses and a few tears, the young girl left 
home. 




BOOK II 


THE MATING 


A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 

A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou 
Beside me singing in the Wilderness 
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow ! 

— Omar Khayyam. 



I 


CHAPTER I 


Phoebe entered upon her winter in Melrose with a 
heavy heart, and bearing for the first time her 
woman’s heritage of pain. 

It was with a sad heart that she had said good- 
bye to her father, and when she felt her mother’s 
tender, clinging arms around her at the last she had 
to choke back the blinding tears. 

‘‘Oh, Mammy Linda!” she said to the old ser- 
vant, who had nursed her and her mother, “take 
good care of mother, and if at any time you see she 
needs me, make father write for me.” 

“Oh, go long, chile!” the old woman answered. 
“Ent I done raise yo’r ma? Cose I’se gwine teck 
keer ob ’er. You kin trus’ Linda, honey.” 

As she ceased speaking she wiped away a stealthy 
tear with the back of her hand, for Phoebe was her 
idol. 

The first two months at Miss Allison’s were quiet 
and uneventful. The old lady was sick and suffering 
a great part of the time, and Phoebe, with exquisite 
youth and beauty, was the greatest comfort and 
pleasure to her. She was a gentlewoman of the old 
school, and much as she hated to deprive Phoebe of 
33 


34 


PHOEBE 


the quiet pleasures which her strict views considered 
permissible, she decided that the young girl should 
not go out, even in a quiet way, until she should be 
strong enough to attend her. 

Phoebe rather demurred at this, as at Sunny Side 
she had come and gone as she pleased without 
thought of a chaperon. But the old lady was firm. 

“I am responsible to Henry Middleton for you, 
Phoebe. It is quite different here, where you are 
not known. I hope after Christmas to be well 
enough to introduce you properly, and in the mean- 
time I wish you to have singing lessons. My old 
friend, Herr Graff, is wintering here, and though 
he does not usually take pupils, I have asked him to 
take you. He is to come here this morning to see 
what you can do.” 

Phoebe’s heart leaped within her at the prospect 
of the lessons, for to study vocal music was the 
thing that she had most wished to do in Melrose. 
With swift, warm impetuosity she kissed the old 
lady, who flushed faintly under the unaccustomed 
caress. 

“Oh, Aunt Al,” she said, “how did you know that 
it was the thing of all others that 1 wished to do! 
And to think of taking from Herr Graff — it is too 
good to be true!” 

In a few minutes the door-bell rang, and Isam, 
the old white-haired negro butler, ushered Herr 
Graff into the room where the ladies sat. 


PHOEBE 


35 

Phoebe felt herself grow hot, then cold, as Miss 
Allison quietly presented : 

''My niece. Miss Middleton, Herr Graff.” 

A tall, imposing-looking person, with drooping 
mustache and iron-gray hair, was bowing low be- 
fore Phoebe. She noticed that he wore a number of 
royal decorations on the front of his closely-buttoned 
black coat. He turned deferentially to Miss Alli- 
son, and while they conversed Phoebe recovered her 
usual poise. 

In a few moments Herr Graff turned to her, and, 
with another low bow, said : 

"Fraulein, will she now sing?” 

Phoebe rose at once and went to the piano. 

"What shall I sing. Aunt Al?” she asked. Then 
she added, "I am afraid I don’t know anything but 
hymns.” 

"Oh, well, sing a hymn, child. It does not matter ; 
Herr Graff wishes only to hear your voice.” 

Taking down a little book of Psalms and Hymns 
that she used in church, Phoebe turned the leaves 
aimlessly for a moment then, striking a few soft 
chords, commenced to sing, "I am far frae my hame 
an’ I’m weary of ten whiles.” 

She paused for an instant, but there was no sound 
in the room, so she went on, singing the stanzas of 
the sacred song. 

As she sang thoughts of father and mother, 
brothers and home, swept over her, and the high. 


PHOEBE 


36 

clear, vibrant notes poured forth full of tenderness 
and feeling. 

When she had finished, she turned eagerly toward 
Herr Graff to hear what he would say. 

He sat perfectly still for a moment, and then his 
admiration burst forth. “Ach Gott!” he exclaimed 
impetuously, “ze Fraulein can sing. She haf a 
voice off goldt!” He rose and shook hands with 
both the ladies. Again and again he made her sing, 
each time appearing more delighted with “ze voice 
off goldt.” It was soon decided that he was to give 
to Phoebe two lessons a week until her aunt was well 
enough to go out. 

Then commenced a pleasant season for Phoebe. 
She always had enjoyed anything that made her 
entirely forget herself. She threw her whole soul 
into the music, and made such progress that she de- 
lighted her teacher. 

However, during all these month’s there was an 
undercurrent of sadness in the girl’s heart for, since 
the note written from the western town, there had 
been no word from Al. The letters from home were 
brave and bright, but Phoebe’s heart read between 
the lines. She knew that the terrible anxiety was 
crushing her father and mother. As Christmas 
came and went the strong hope that she had enter- 
tained that Al would write, or come, died out and 
she settled down once more to the deep undercurrent 
of pain. 

During these months of wearing anxiety her reli- 


PHOEBE 


37 


gion became a vital and tender thing to her, and 
she was sustained and comforted. Each day she 
prayed earnestly for all the dear ones, but chiefly 
and most tenderly for Allison. And each time she 
rose from her knees comforted and serene, feeling 
sure that in God’s good time all would yet be well. 


CHAPTER II 


A warm friendship sprang up between Phoebe 
and Eloise Murphy, the daughter of a dear friend 
of Miss Allison’s. Eloise was a year younger than 
Phoebe, and was sweet and fair and plump. She 
was the opposhe of Phoebe in many ways, and 
looked up to and worshiped her as only some very 
sweet natures can look up to and worship those 
whom they consider far above themselves in beauty 
and intelligence. 

Now that Miss McClintock was better, she planned 
a series of pleasures for Phoebe, in which Eloise 
was always included. Thus, for the first time in 
her life, Phoebe was thrown intimately with a girl 
nearly her own age, and she enjoyed this friendship 
very much. 

Miss McClintock gathered about her the choicest 
society in Melrose ; and, by her beauty and grace, 
Phoebe soon won all hearts. Invitations to card 
parties, dances, musicales, concerts, dinners, and teas 
began to pour in, and for an hour or two each morn- 
ing Phoebe was kept busy answering them, on some 
of the beautiful imported paper, stamped with Miss 
Allison’s monogram, with which the beautiful old 
writing-desk was always well supplied. 

38 


PHOEBE 


39 


Miss McClintock insisted that all questionable 
invitations be declined. But wherever Phoebe did 
go, and she went a great deal, she found herself the 
center of an admiring group, that lavished adulation 
and flattery upon her. In fact, had not Phoebe had 
a very level head on her young shoulders, she would 
have been in very great danger of having it com- 
pletely turned. For '‘the little Puritan,” as she was 
called, was undoubtedly the rage, and Aunt Allison’s 
pride and pleasure in her knew no bounds. 

Lent came, and, while they did not observe it in 
any way. Miss Allison and Phoebe were glad of a 
little quiet time to themselves. It was still a busy 
time for Phoebe, as she was working hard over her 
music, and was planning various new and inexpen- 
sive dresses. 

Few of her many admirers knew that many of the 
pretty and stylish-looking garments in which she 
delighted Melrose society were made by her own 
slender, thrifty fingers. 

Eloise was now kept at home by the illness of her 
mother, so Phoebe found herself thrown largely on 
her own resources. Time never hung heavy for 
her, however, as there was nearly always some one 
to walk or ride with, and Miss Allison had planned 
for her a great deal of reading, which she had not 
had time to do. 

“Never fail to be well read, my child,” the old 
lady had said to her on more than one occasion. 
“A pretty face may not always be yours, but a fine 


40 


PHOEBE 


brain is riches in itself.” And Phoebe’s quick mind 
responded with avidity. 

Accordingly, Miss Allison had mapped out a 
course of reading for Phoebe, including history, 
poetry, biography and travel, and whenever oppor- 
tunity offered she took her niece to a lecture or to a 
concert. 

One blustering cold Sunday afternoon in early 
March as Phoebe came in from Sunday-school, 
where she had taken a class of little children, she 
was surprised to hear voices in the drawing-room. 
Knowing that her aunt’s rules about visiting on Sun- 
day were as the laws of the Medes and Persians and 
changed not, Phoebe could not repress a little girlish 
curiosity as to who the visitor could possibly be. 
She had just left Nat Murphy at the door. She was 
still smiling at his boyish nonsense and his comic 
look of distress when she told him she could neither 
walk to the river with him nor invite him in, because 
it was Sunday! How he would have groaned, if 
he had known that some one more fortunate than 
himself was safe inside, cozily chatting by the bright 
fire. 

She was dressed simply, in a long dark brown 
coat and skirt, brown being a color very much in 
vogue. On her head she wore a close-fitting toque 
of brown velvet, trimmed with a bunch of pink 
roses at the side. Around her trim shoulders was a 
beautiful brown sealskin cape, belonging to her aunt, 
and she carried the muff to match. Where the cape 


PHOEBE 


41 


was brought together in front it was caught by a 
cluster of pink carnations, a flower which was just 
beginning to be imported to the south by a few enter- 
prising florists. 

As she was crossing the hall to go to her room her 
aunt called her to come into the drawing-room. She 
went immediately in, letting her long dress trail 
across the floor after her. The long, trailing, dark 
dress accentuated her extreme slenderness, while the 
spirited carriage of her head suggested the startled 
grace of a young fawn. Her cheeks and. lips were 
glowing from exercise, and her eyes still wore the 
smiling light that Nat’s parting nonsense had caused 
to shine in their clear depths. 

Phoebe fully expected to see old Dr. Carmichael, 
but when she raised her eyes they encountered the 
admiring gaze of a pair of particularly fine blue 
ones that belonged to a distinguished-looking man 
that she had never seen before. 

Tie caught his breath quickly as his eyes met hers, 
and for one instant their souls seemed to mingle, 
while Miss Allison was saying in her serene way : 

‘‘This is my niece. Miss Middleton, Mr. Hamilton. 
Phoebe, come and meet my old friend, Mr. Paul 
Hamilton.” 

Phoebe, with a singular new tingling sensation 
that reached to her finger-tips, turned with a ready 
smile, and shook hands with the stranger. Then she 
made some light remark about his not looking his 
full age, if he were one of Aunt Al’s oldest friends! 


42 


PHOEBE 


He picked up the ball of small talk and repartee, 
and they tossed it back and forth with laughter and 
jest, and with much innocent coquetry from Phoebe. 

Finally, in despair. Miss McClintock looked from 
one to the other and said : “What are you two talk- 
ing about? I am sure neither of you know, for I 
can’t make anything out of it.” 

Whereupon they both laughed like two gay chil- 
dren, and Phoebe rose to lay aside her wraps. 

“Sing something for us, Phoebe, child,” said the 
old lady, as the girl crossed the room to resume her 
seat. 

One of Phoebe’s charms lay in her being free 
from affectation. She went immediately to the 
piano, saying as she did so, “What shall I sing?” 

“Sing that little hymn you sang for Herr Graff 
that first day he came. It begins, ‘I am far frae my 
hame.’ ” 

Phoebe sat down to the piano, and letting her 
hands wander over the keys in a soft prelude, she 
sang again the sweet simple hymn. As she sang 
she forgot the present. She thought of Clay and 
the touching sacrifice that he was preparing to make. 
She thought of Bruce with his sweet ways. She 
thought of Al, wandering somewhere in the far dis- 
tant west — possibly in sin and want. She thought 
of her father and mother lonely and anxious and 
waiting at home. She thought of the Sunday after- 
noons when they had all gathered about the piano 


PHOEBE 


43 


while their mother played and their childish voices 
mingled with her clear soprano and their father’s 
deep bass. 

The sweet, clear liquid notes floated out like a 
chime of golden bells, while Phoebe, with rapt eyes, 
seemed to look straight into that other land. When 
she finished Paul Hamilton sat quite still. Some- 
thing seemed to grip his throat. The words would 
not come. 

Miss Allison cried out, “Phoebe, child, what on 
earth were you thinking of to make you look like 
that?” Phoebe turned, smiling, but answered a 
little tremulously. “I don’t know why, but some- 
how I always think of Clay when I sing that.” 

Just then Isam brought in the tray with tea, and 
shortly afterward Paul Hamilton rose to take a 
reluctant leave. Phoebe had gone from the room for 
an instant to get something for her aunt. As Paul 
held the old lady’s hand, in farewell, he leaned over 
and, looking searchingly into her eyes, said, “Miss 
Allison, who is Clay?” 


CHAPTER III 


'T wish your father hadn’t named you Phoebe,’^ 
fumed Miss Allison the next day. She was in a 
peevish mood and nothing quite suited her. “Who 
ever heard of naming a Christian child by such a 
heathenish name!” 

Phoebe, too, had been restless and distrait all 
morning. She could not imagine what ailed her, 
but at her aunt’s fretful outburst, she laughed 
merrily and said: 

“What have you against my name. Aunt Al? I 
used to think it was very ugly and unattractive, but 
I rather like it now. The boys used to tease me, and 
call me Tib,’ and I remember once I cried. Then 
mother took me in her lap and told me I was named 
for father’s mother, who died when he was a tiny 
little boy, and that Phoebe meant pure and radiant. 
I have never disliked the name since.” 

“Well, I had much rather they had named you 
Lois, or Alice, or Allison. I am sure they sound 
more Christian. Why didn’t they name you Allison, 
after me?” 

“But, Aunt Al, they named Allison after you,” 
suggested Phoebe. 


44 


PHOEBE 


45 


“I would like to know who wants a boy rampag- 
ing around the country named after one? I am 
very much displeased with Allison, so I have made 
a new will, and have left you what little I have.” 

Tears sprang to Phoebe’s soft eyes, and she ex- * 
claimed : 

“Oh, Aunt Al, indeed, indeed you must not ! A1 
is a dear! He is all right, and I couldn’t bear to 
have what rightfully belonged to him.” 

“Rightfully! Humph! I’d like to know if it is 
not permissible for me to do as I choose with my 
own? I have struggled all my life to take care of it, 
and I do not propose to leave it to anybody to 
waste,” the old lady went on vigorously. 

“I am sure Al will turn out all right, and I 
couldn’t take what we have always thought would 
be his.” Phoebe laid her hand tenderly on the old 
lady’s wrinkled one, and looked at her aunt most 
beseechingly, but Miss McClintock remained firm. 

“You need not try to dictate to me, child. Your 
kind feeling in this matter does you credit, but I 
have made up my mind.” 

She spoke with such an air of finality that Phoebe 
felt it was useless to discuss the matter further and 
sat looking gravely into the fire. Phoebe was 
silenced for the time being. But she had by no 
means given up. All her life people had done for 
her what she wished, so she could not think that 
Aunt Allison really meant to hold out against her. 

Just then Eloise Murphy burst into the room. 


PHOEBE 


46 

Her sweet face was all aglow and she brought a 
breath of outdoors with her. 

“Come, Phoeb!” she cried, “it is glorious out, and 
Nat says the arbutus is perfectly lovely on the hill 
by the bluff road.” 

“Is Nat going with you, girls?” asked Miss Alli- 
son. “You know, Eloise, I don’t approve of your 
running around in the woods by yourselves. I don’t 
think it is quite safe.” 

“Yes, Miss Allison, mother is well enough for us 
both to leave her this morning, and you know Nat 
doesn’t go to college on Monday. . . . Run, 

Phoeb, and get your hat. Nat said he would wait 
for us at Lampson’s.” 

Phoebe quickly returned, in trim boots and walk- 
ing-skirt, with a short red coat and a cap to match. 

They all enjoyed the brisk walk in the crisp 
March air, and brought back great bunches of the 
sweet, delicate arbutus. Nat’s college slang and 
nonsense diverted Phoebe’s mind from all disturbing 
thought, and of the three she was the wildest and 
the merriest. 

That afternoon, just before the time for lamps 
to be lighted. Miss Allison and Phoebe were sitting 
in the drawing-room by a cozy fire, which the late 
spring still rendered indispensable. There was an 
old-fashioned blue delft bowl of arbutus on the 
table, and its delicate fragrance filled the air. The 
ladies had laid aside their work, and were enjoying 
the deepening twilight. Phoebe had discarded 


PHOEBE 


47 


fashion, for the time, and had dressed her hair in a 
simple, girlish style that made her look almost child- 
ishly young, while the effect of youth was enhanced 
by her simple dress of soft white wool. 

Thinking it too early for visitors, they were sur- 
prised to hear the front door close, and Isam’s voice 
saying: “Yas, suh. Mass’ Paul, dey’s bof een dere. 
Pse powerful glad to see you. Mass’ Paul, I sho’ is.” 

The curtains at the drawing-room door were 
thrust back, and the old negro announced pomp- 
ously : 

''Mr. Paul Hamilton.” 

Paul came forward, his quick eyes taking in at a 
glance the pleasant home picture. 

Phoebe for some inexplicable reason suddenly felt 
herself glow with color, and she was glad that the 
light was too dim for it to be seen. Somehow she 
felt very young and very happy, and was glad 
when Miss Allison invited Paul to stay to tea. To 
this proposal he acceded so readily that Phoebe 
strongly suspected that Aunt Allison had fallen 
into a trap, which this scheming young man had 
laid, and she could scarcely restrain a smile at his 
look of well-bred innocence. 

Miss Allison always lived well but simply, and 
her table was always dainty with clean linen, bright 
silver and fresh flowers. To-night the centerpiece 
was a glass bowl filled with arbutus, white violets, 
and maiden-hair fern, which had been tastefully 
arranged by Phoebe’s capable hands. 


48 


PHOEBE 


It seemed to Phoebe that the fried chicken had 
never had so fine a flavor, that the honey had never 
had a color so golden, that the waffles had never 
been so crisp and brown, as on this first evening that 
she and Paul sat down at the table together. 

As for Paul, he hardly knew what to think of 
this merry child, who teased and coquetted even 
with severe Miss Allison. In a way, he thought 
her even more charming than the regal young crea- 
ture he had met the afternoon before. He was 
very glad that he knew who Clay was. 

Some mention was made of the flowers on the 
table, and Phoebe went into a spirited account of 
some incident of the walk, and mentioned Nat 
Murphy’s name. 

“Nat Murphy!” said Paul quickly, “why he is 
nothing but a child, is he?” 

“He is a pretty big child then,” said Phoebe, “for 
he is six feet two, and awfully good-looking!” 

“Why, how old is he. Miss Allison?” asked Paul, 
turning to Miss McClintock, and feeling that hatred 
of Nat Murphy was taking possession of him. 

Before the old lady could answer Phoebe spoke. 

“He was nineteen on Christmas Day. I know, 
for I heard him bewailing the fact, and saying that 
he had been done out of something in having his 
birthday and Christmas come on the same day,” and 
Phoebe laughed at the remembrance of his boyish 
chatter. 

The meal being over, they returned to the draw- 


PHOEBE 


49 


ing-room, where Isam had replenished the fire and 
lighted candles. Hagar, Aunt Allison’s cat, and 
her family of kittens had taken possession of the 
hearth rug in their absence, and the kittens were 
now comfortably having their supper before the 
warm fire. As Phoebe looked at their little soft 
warm bodies, and saw their little pink tongues draw- 
ing their nourishment, something shy and sweet 
seemed to stir within her; and, for the first time in 
her life, she cast her eyes down with sweet shame. 

^Who in the world let the cat in here? Take her 
out, Phoebe, and tell Isam to put her in the barn,” 
commanded Miss Allison. 

Phoebe, glad of something to cover her unwonted 
confusion, gathered the kittens up in her arms. She 
made a lovely picture with the little things held close 
to her, but Hagar did not seem to appreciate it, 
for she stalked anxiously along making faint, quick 
calls to her babies. 

Paul’s glance followed the girl to the door. Then 
he turned and faced Miss Allison. 

‘‘Where have you kept her hidden all these 
years ?” he asked. 

The old lady smiled lovingly, and irrelevantly 
answered: “Take care, Paul; I warn you, for 
you know I love you too. Phoebe does not seem 
easy to win.” 

Their conversation was interrupted by the en- 
trance of Herr Graff, who came in, reeking of 


50 


PHOEBE 


tobacco, but very elegant in appearance, and bow- 
ing with much ceremony. 

He was the bearer of an invitation to Phoebe, 
which he was plainly desirous that she should accept. 

She was asked to sing in Grace Episcopal Church 
on Easter Sunday. The leading soprano had been 
taken ill and her doctor had forbidden her to use 
her voice for several months, so Phoebe was asked to 
take her place at Easter. 

“Easter!” said Miss Allison, “Easter indeed! 
Why can’t they ask the child to sing some other 
Sunday? They know I don’t keep Easter.” 

“But I half speak off ze voice! And dey haff 
vish to hear. De day, it do not matter. It iss de 
voice off goldt dat dey would hear.” Herr Graff 
looked anxiously at Miss Allison, and it was quite 
plain that he wished his pupil to sing. 

Paul rose and said good-bye soon after. But 
when he went out into the frosty night he did not 
go home. He walked for a long time, thinking; 
and when he arrived at home he still was of the 
opinion that for once Miss McClintock was very 
remiss in letting a beautiful girl like Miss Middleton 
take lessons from an old German beer-keg like that, 
and in allowing her to run around the country with a 
scatter-brain like Nat Murphy. 


CHAPTER IV 


The two weeks before Easter sped swiftly by, and 
Phoebe did not see Paul Hamilton again until the 
day that she was to sing. Twice he called, but once 
she was spending the evening with the Murphys, 
and the next time she had gone to practice in the 
church. 

The music that had been selected was an adapta- 
tion of a portion of Handel’s most beautiful oratorio, 
“The Messiah,” and Phoebe was to have the chief 
solo; she was also to sing in the “Hallelujah” chorus. 
It was hard work for the girl, but she liked it, and 
the Saturday evening that they met for the final 
practice she was conscious of doing her part well. 

Easter morning dawned clear and beautiful, and, 
contrary to her custom. Miss Allison had insisted 
that Phoebe should lie in bed and keep her nerves 
quiet until time for the services. Phoebe had 
laughed gaily at the idea of her having nerves, but 
she was glad to stay in her room, for she felt that 
no one could sing such music as “The Messiah” 
without special spiritual preparation. 

She lay quietly in bed until eight o’clock — that 
seemed very late to her. Then, throwing back the 
51 


52 


PHOEBE 


cover, she ran to the window without even so much 
as putting on her slippers. She pushed open the 
shutters, and looked out on a sweet new world. 

The trees were just beginning to show buddings 
of tender green, and each branch and twig wore an 
emerald crown. Down in the garden the walks 
were bordered with jonquils, while from the big 
magnolia at the end of the walk there was the busy 
chatter of a flock of jay-birds. She smiled as she 
listened, and then her face grew tender for they 
reminded her of home. She breathed the pure morn- 
ing air for an instant, then, catching up her Bible, 
she made a flying leap and landed in the middle 
of the big bed. Snuggling down under the cover, 
for she must run no risk of catching cold to-day 
of all days, she opened her Bible and read again 
the wonderful and touching story of the trial and 
the crucifixion and the glorious resurrection of our 
Lord. 

Her heart stirred within her, and a prayer of 
devotion and new consecration rose from the depths 
of her being. 

She was lying very still with the little Bible 
slipped under her pillow, while her long dark lashes 
held two trembling tears that had risen in her access 
of devotion, when Miss Allison came softly in, 
bringing a cup of hot milk on a tray. 

The old lady hesitated for an instant, thinking 
that the girl was still asleep, but Phoebe turned and 
opened her eyes. “Oh, Aunt Al,” she cried, “the 


PHOEBE 53 

idea of your bringing my milk yourself! Why 
didn’t you make Isam set it outside my door?” 

She sat up as she spoke, and tasted the milk. 
Then making a wry face, she exclaimed contemptu- 
ously: "‘Hot milk! I think Herr Graff must be 
crazy. Who does he think wants to make a break- 
fast off a cup of hot milk !” 

Then, sniffing ecstatically, she added, ‘T smell hot 
rolls right now !” 

'T don’t see why some breakfast would hurt your 
voice, and I’ll go straight down and send you up a 
tray, if you wish it,” said Miss Allison. ‘T never 
heard before that one couldn’t eat breakfast the day 
one sang in church.” 

Phoebe set the cup back in the tray and lay back 
among the pillows, smiling. 

“That really isn’t so bad,” she said, “and I don’t 
suppose I am really anywhere as near starving as I 
feel. But, Aunt Al, do tell Clarissa to have some- 
thing extra good for dinner ! I fancy that by that 
time I’ll be ready for something substantial.” 

To Phoebe’s surprise when she came down-stairs 
ready for church, the old lady was sitting with her 
bonnet on, reading the Bible. 

“Why, Aunt Al, I thought you had gone,” she 
said. 

Miss Allison smiled faintly. 

“Did you think I would let you go alone?” she 
asked. 

“I did feel a little strange and frightened at the 


54 


PHOEBE 


thought,” Phoebe admitted, '‘but I know you do 
not believe in observing Easter, so I didn’t think 
you would care to go.” 

The carriage was waiting at the door; there was 
no time for further conversation, and Isam drove 
briskly to church. 

When they arrived Eloise took charge of Miss 
McClintock, taking her into the pew with the 
Murphys. Paul Hamilton met Phoebe and walked 
by her side around to the choir-room. 

“Why,” she exclaimed in apparent surprise, “are 
you here? I thought you were a Presbyterian.” 

Paul parried, “I thought you were a Presbyterian, 
and you are here.” 

“Of course I am a Presbyterian, I am the bluest 
kind, deep 'dyed in the wool,’ ” laughed Phoebe, 
“but I came to sing.” 

“And I came to hear you,” said Paul. 

“But you shouldn’t come to church for any such 
reason as that,” said Phoebe gravely, and looking 
very innocent. 

“Perhaps not,” said Paul, “but that is why I 
came.” 

He looked at her gravely, straight in the eyes as 
he spoke. Phoebe turned quickly, and ran up the 
steps into the choir-room. 


CHAPTER V 


The church was filled to overflowing with the 
elite of Melrose that Easter morning, for, besides 
the fact that it was Easter Sunday, a whisper had 
gone abroad that Miss Middleton was going to sing. 
Few had ever heard her, as Herr Grafif had insisted 
that she sing only at home during the winter 
months. Many knew the fair young girl though, 
and were curious to hear the voice that Herr Graff 
praised so extravagantly. 

Phoebe, in chorister robes, came out with the 
choir and took her place, feeling a little anxious 
and lonely; but, as the beautiful ritual service 
progressed, she threw her heart into it, and soon 
all thought of self was lost. 

Her lovely young face was angelic in its purit)> 
when the time for her solo arrived and she stepped 
forward in front of the choir. The plain close cap 
and the wide collar of the chorister’s dress acted 
as a foil to bring out the spirituality of her expres- 
sion and the beauty of her coloring. Her hair fell 
in soft waves over brow and neck, and her cheeks 
were flushed with warmth and excitement. Her 
breathing was gentle and regular, while her parted 
lips just disclosed the row of even, strong, white 
55 


PHOEBE 


56 

teeth. Her eyes, velvety and serene, glanced over 
the congregation while the great organ was pealing 
forth the prelude. 

Near the front, looking very anxious and warm, 
sat Herr Graff. In the Murphys' pew, on the right, 
she saw Aunt A1 looking very belligerent at all this 
‘Topery.” Phoebe could hardly restrain a smile 
as her eyes rested on her aunt for an instant. Then 
far back near the door, she saw Paul Hamilton’s 
clean-shaven face. His head, with his blond hair 
closely cut, stood out in bold relief against the dark 
paneling of the wall. A singular thrill, not alto- 
gether of pleasure, passed through her as she recog- 
nized him, and she dropped her eyes to the music 
that she held in her hand. 

Then she commenced to sing. The notes a little 
tremulous at first, soon became steady, and poured 
forth like a molten stream of purest gold. Her eyes, 
seraphic in their look of devotion, gazed far above 
the heads of her listeners, and like Handel, seemed 
to see the ‘‘great God himself.” 

The jubilant notes, “I know that my Redeemer 
liveth,” seemed to float away into paradise itself. 

When she sat down she felt a strange spiritual 
elation, and she knew, from the breathless stillness 
around her, that she had sung, as she had prayed to 
sing, to the honor of her King. Again in the 
“Hallelujah” chorus, when the whole congregation 
rose, her clear, pure, young voice soared aloft, and 


PHOEBE 


57 

she felt almost as if she could float away in an 
ecstacy of song. 

The great congregation dispersed slowly, linger- 
ing to express Easter greetings, and to comment 
upon the music. 

‘'That little girl can sing” said Nat Murphy to 
Major Dalrymple as they passed down the aisle 
together. 

The major, whose round, rosy face still beamed 
with the pleasure that Phoebe’s singing had given 
to him, said: 

“There is no doubt of that ! Why, the child could 
make her fortune on the stage.” 

“Well, she’ll hardly go there,” said Nat, but the 
major interrupted him: 

“O I know that! They tell me she is very strict, 
and that the little Puritan even has a vocation.” 

“A vocation ! O come, Major I” said Clifford Daw- 
son, who had joined the group, “you are a little 
mixed on your theology. Who ever heard of a 
Presbyterian having a vocation?” 

The major, a shade pinker, if that were possible, 
joined in the laugh against himself, then said: 

“I’ll be bound, she has a vocation all the same, 
and I’ll bet Nat knows what it is!” The major 
winked slyly at Nat, who colored up to his ears. 

“Come, come. Major, that is not fair to try to 
turn the laugh on Nat. I believe in fair play,” said 
Clifford. 

The little group broke up, and Nat got out just in 


58 


PHOEBE 


time to see Paul hand Miss Allison and Phoebe into 
the carriage, and get in himself, and then Isam 
whipped up the horses and started off at a brisk pace. 

“How perfectly insufferable Paul Hamilton has 
become,” Nat thought. “He positively makes me ill 
he gives himself such airs since he came home from 
Massachusetts ! . . . Besides, I don’t think it 

is quite honest in Miss Allison to forbid us all to 
come there on Sunday, and then take him off, in the 
carriage with them, under our very eyes !” 


CHAPTER VI 


Late that afternoon Phoebe lay back in a great 
easy chair, resting. The day had exhausted her 
more than she would have thought possible. 

“I never remember feeling so tired but once be- 
fore,” she said, “and that was a time Clay and I 
walked six miles, in the broiling sun, to get water- 
lilies. When we got them home, they were all 
dead, and we nearly got a whipping for our pains !” 
She laughed softly at the remembrance. 

“Well, Phoebe, I have been listening to your 
chatter for the last hour, and I have come to the 
conclusion that you are a sly puss.” Miss Allison 
spoke with some asperity. 

Phoebe sat up suddenly as if she had been jerked, 
and looked mildly surprised. “Why, Aunt Al, what 
have I done!” 

“What have you done! It is what you haven’t 
done that I am wondering over. You have known 
Paul Hamilton two whole weeks, and, so far as I 
have heard, his name has never passed your lips. 
Have you no curiosity about him, or is it that you 
are deep?” 

Phoebe felt herself flush in a most provoking 
59 


6o 


PHOEBE 


way, under the old lady’s questioning gaze. She 
decided to use candor as her best weapon of de- 
fense. 

“To be perfectly truthful, Aunt Al, I have had 
a good deal of curiosity about him. I have won- 
dered how he came to be so intimate here, and how 
you came to be so fond of him,” she admitted. 

“Then why haven’t you asked me?” 

“Oh, I don’t know! Just because ” Phoebe 

held her slim hands between her face and the light, 
and examined them critically. Miss Allison watched 
her narrowly, but said nothing. 

Presently the old lady burst out again: “I am 
not going to have you trying any of your tricks on 
him, Phoebe. He ilTike a son to me, and I would 
not have him hurt for anything in the world.” 

“You may set your mind at rest about him. Aunt 
Allison, so far as I am concerned. I certainly shall 
not molest him!” Phoebe rose with dignity as she 
spoke, and swept from the room. 

The old lady sat dreamily looking into the fire, 
while once or twice a half smile passed over her 
face. 

After a while Phoebe came back, all penitence 
for having been cross. 

“I am so sorry I was rude, Aunt Al. Won’t you 
forgive me, and show it by telling me all about your 
precious Paul?” She knelt on the rug at Miss Alli- 
son’s feet, and looked comically beseeching. 

The old lady patted the shining dark head lov- 


PHOEBE 


6i 


ingly, and when Phoebe had settled herself com- 
fortably with her back to the light, Miss Allison 
told her the story of Mr. Paul Davidge Hamilton. 

Briefly set forth, it was as follows : 

Mr. Paul Davidge Hamilton, the present Paul’s 
father, was a wealthy planter in the lower part of the 
state. At the beginning of the war he owned much 
land and many slaves. He married Miss Mary 
Hughes, the daughter of Miss Allison’s dearest 
friend, and as it was a pure love match it promised 
to be most happy. To this union was born one son, 
Paul Davidge. When the little fellow was less than 
two years old the war broke out, and Mr. Hamilton 
enlisted at once. Paul never remembered seeing him, 
for he was killed in the first battle in which he was 
engaged. The devoted wife was overcome at his 
loss, and when a little girl was born two months 
afterward her little limbs were shrivelled and she 
never walked. 

The old home had been burned by raiders during 
the war, and the slaves were freed, so nothing was 
left but the land, and there was no one to cultivate 
that. In the course of a few years, where there had 
been fine open rice lands the fields had grown up 
in a thick underbrush of low-country shrubbery. 

Mary Hamilton had lost her own mother, so 
during all the hard years of her early widowhood, 
and during the infancy of her frail little daughter. 
Miss Allison had been to her what only one loving 
woman can be to another. 


62 


PHOEBE 


Paul was sent up to Melrose to school, but he had 
not been able to go to college as his mother had 
felt the need of putting him to work as soon as 
possible. Miss Allison had used her influence, and 
had secured him a position in the office of the lead- 
ing lawyer in Melrose. Here he read law, and 
showed such ability that he rapidly rose from one 
position of trust to another. The quality that 
counted for more than any other in his steady rise 
was his remarkable power of strict application to 
business. 

A big syndicate, which was organizing cotton 
mills all through the south, had sent him to Massa- 
chusetts to study the subject, and he had returned 
to Melrose only a short time before his appearance 
at Miss McClintock’s. 

He was handsome and distinguished in appear- 
ance, and though still a young man, was recognized 
as the most promising business man of Melrose. 
Coupled with his genius for regularity and punct- 
uality he had fine judgment, a high sense of honor, 
and was a member of the same church that Miss 
Allison belonged to. 

Mrs. Hamilton and her crippled daughter lived 
in extreme retirement in a small cottage on the old 
plantation, and Paul did all that a loving heart but 
his as yet small means could suggest for their 
comfort and happiness. While at school, as a boy 
in Melrose, Miss Allison’s house had been a home 
to him ; and he had rewarded her interest and kind- 


PHOEBE 


63 


ness by giving her a love and confidence that was 
very rare between persons of their differing age and 
sex. 

He had had the usual number of schoolboy flirta- 
tions, but of love and marriage he had never enter- 
tained an idea, that is, up to the time of his meet- 
ing Phoebe. Miss Allison was not so sure of what 
he had thought since. 

The morning after this talk with Phoebe, Miss 
Allison had to go into the city on business, so 
Phoebe was left alone. She was rather glad of a 
quiet opportunity to write to Clay, however, so she 
got out her writing materials, and was just about 
to begin, when Isam ushered in Herr Graff. The 
old gentleman looked a little pale and excited, and 
Phoebe wondered vaguely if something had occurred 
to distress him. He was rather more deferential, 
than usual, and commenced to praise her singing 
of the day before. 

Phoebe showed her gratification in having pleased 
him by blushing most becomingly, when, to her 
amazement, he seized her hand and carried it to 
his lips. 

^‘Ach Gott! Fraulein,’’ he exclaimed, “it iss de 
luff I haff for you!” 

Phoebe greatly embarrassed, drew back, but he 
did not notice her uneasiness; he was intent upon 
his own destruction. 

“Ze Fraulein, do she not understandt? I vould 
haff her for my vife.” 


64 


PHOEBE 


‘'Oh, Herr Graff!’’ she cried in pained astonish- 
ment, “I couldn’t, indeed I couldn't, ever be any- 
thing to you but a most affectionate pupil. Please 
do not ever let us mention this again, for it is 
entirely out of the question.” 

“But for why?” he insisted. “Ze Fraulein, she 
haff a voice of goldt. Vat she vould haff iss a 
career. She should sing before de Kaiser. She 
vould be receive at court. She vould be honor, she 
vould be great I” 

She very firmly, but kindly, made him understand 
that she had no wish for a career, and that she 
could not marry any man that she did not love 
no matter what advantages he could offer to her; 
so he finally went away, and the next morning he 
left the city. In a note of farewell to Miss Allison, 
he sent affectionate regards to “my beloved pupil, 
the Fraulein,” and Miss Allison gave Phoebe the 
message without seeing the twinkle of amusement in 
the latter’s bright eyes. 


CHAPTER VII 


It was a perfect afternoon of the week after 
Easter. Phoebe and Paul were riding horseback up 
the river road. On the west was the broad shining 
river, lazily making its way to the sea; on the east 
was a tangle of wildwood. The spring had been 
particularly late, so all the early wild flowers were 
still in bloom, making the woods a bower of beauty. 
Snowy dogwood, crimson woodbine, pale pink 
honeysuckle, and delicate crab-apple blossoms 
studded the underbush, while far overhead wreaths 
of yellow jasmine threw a chime of golden incense 
to the breeze. 

The riders had brought their horses to a walk, 
and were enjoying the sweet odors from the woods 
and the light breeze from the river. Phoebe had 
received a letter from her mother that had given a 
touch of wistfulness to her eyes and a note of sad- 
ness to her voice. Paul had never before seen her 
in this mood, and of all her various moods it was 
the most appealing. She had always seemed a child 
so bright and beautiful that she had no need of 
love; but this afternoon, she was, for the first time, 
a woman bearing her burden of sorrow and trying 
65 


66 


PHOEBE 


to keep it hidden. His heart went out to her in 
deepest tenderness, and he longed to take her in 
his arms and shelter her from all pain. Whatever 
doubts he had had before were dispelled, and he 
knew that of all the world Phoebe Middleton was 
the woman for him. 

He was gravely tremulous because of the in- 
tensity of his feeling, for to him it seemed a serious 
matter to ask a woman to be his wife. He had 
never been one to treat women lightly, and his 
thought of marriage was tender and sacred, reach- 
ing somewhere into the very innermost core of his 
being. 

Phoebe, who had been looking at the river, turned 
suddenly in her saddle, and said : 

“It is all very beautiful, isn’t it? I shall think 
often of this ride — when I am gone.” 

“Gone! gone! Gone where?” Paul managed to 
stammer. 

“I forgot that you didn’t know. Mother needs 
me, and I am going home next week. I have been 
feeling for some time that I should go, but it is 
hard to tear myself away. Everybody has been so 
good to me. I shall think of you always as a dear 
friend, Mr. Hamilton. You have been most kind, 
and I hope you will count me one of your friends.” 

Phoebe smiled tremulously, and held out her 
smooth, ungloved hand as she spoke. 

“Never, Phoebe!” Paul cried, and her name 
slipped out unnoticed. “The day has passed when 


PHOEBE 


67 


I could have been a friend of yours. I want much 
more than that ! I want you. I know I am all un- 
worthy, but I love you, Phoebe ; and I want you for 
my wife.” 

He took off his hat and waited, with bared head, 
for her answer. 

Phoebe, with all her girlish coquetry laid aside, 
looked softly and kindly at him, and said: “Oh, 
believe me, I am so sorry ! But I don’t think I ever 
wish to marry. It is so solemn. It frightens me. 
Just suppose we didn’t hold out, how awful it would 
be.” 

“I am not afraid of not holding out,” Paul said, 
“and I intend to make you love me, so help me God.” 
He bowed his head as if taking an oath. 

“O please, please do not!” cried Phoebe, a look 
of almost childish distress coming into her lovely 
eyes. “I don’t wish to love anybody. Indeed, in- 
deed, I do not. Won’t you just be my friend?” 

Paul looked at her and had to smile, though he 
was so disturbed. She looked so young and so very 
troubled. 

“I can’t be your friend, Phoebe, but at least I 
promise that I will not distress you. I wish you 
to remember that I love you, and that I will not 
change. Each day I wish you to say to yourself : 
‘Paul loves me. He wants me for his wife.’ Won’t 
you promise that much, Phoebe? If I can make 
you love me, won’t you be my wife?” 


68 


PHOEBE 


Paul’s voice was full of tender pleading, and the 
hand that he laid on Phoebe’s felt warm and strong. 

Again she felt that singular thrill pass through 
her as it had done on Easter Sunday when she 
caught sight of his face in the back of the church. 
Only this time the thrill was stronger and more 
insistent. She felt her face flame rosy red, and 
she could not meet his beseeching eyes. 

A sudden sweet ecstacy filled Paul’s heart, and 
he knew that he had only tried to pluck the fruit 
too soon. Releasing her hand, he said gently: 
‘‘Never mind, little girl. I’ll wait.” 

Then they rode slowly home through the gather- 
ing twilight, and she told him of her mother’s 
letter and of Allison : how during all these months 
they had had no news of the boy, and how her 
mother’s heart was sick with hope deferred. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A year and a half sped swiftly by, and Phoebe, 
except for a short visit now and then, had been no 
more to Melrose. She had found that Mrs. Middle- 
ton needed her, and the tender heart of the girl re- 
proached her that she had stayed away so long. 

The look of patient suffering in her mother’s 
eyes had touched her inexpressibly, and she made 
up her mind that she would not leave her again, at 
least not until Bruce should be at home. 

Miss Allison had been unusually well during these 
months, and had spent the greater part of one winter 
at Sunny Side. Phoebe had used all her powers of 
persuasion to get the old lady to reinstate Allison 
in her will; but, for once, she had to own herself 
beaten. Miss Allison remained obdurate. 

All these quiet months had been full of sweetness 
to the girl, for she felt that she was doing her duty. 
However, she no longer deceived her own heart: 
she knew that she loved Paul Hamilton. Never- 
theless she would not hear of an engagement; at 
least not while Dr. and Mrs. Middleton needed 
her so much. 

“It is no use talking, Paul,” she said on one occa- 
69 


70 


PHOEBE 


sion, “I cannot leave them now, and I do not be- 
lieve in long, indefinite engagements. So we will 
not be bound.” 

“I do not mind being bound,” he had answered. 
“In fact it is the thing I most long to be^. The 
tighter the better so far as I am concerned. O 
Phoebe, darling! I love you so! Won’t you at 
least tell me that you care?” 

And Phoebe had answered, “If it is any com- 
fort to you to know it, I do care very much.” And 
for a delicious, fleeting instant she had laid her soft, 
cool cheek against his. With this he had been 
forced to be content. 

Bruce was near the end of his course at college, 
and Clay would soon graduate at the seminary. 
Bruce would finish in March and Clay in May. 
Then Bruce would bring home the sweet girl who 
had promised to be his wife; and in October Clay, 
forsaking all, would go to that far distant land, 
where he was called to minister. 

Shortly after Christmas Miss Allison sent for 
Phoebe. She was not well, she wrote. 

So Phoebe went up to Melrose. It had been a 
very hard winter: for weeks the snow had lain on 
the ground, and the river was frozen over. Phoebe 
had never known it to be so cold, and she enjoyed 
the coasting and sleighing as only those can that 
have never before known those pleasures. Major 
Dalrymple, Clifford Dawson, and Nat Murphy 
vied with one another in contributing to her pleas- 


PHOEBE 


71 


ure. Each of them had in his own way told her 
of his love, and had gone away hopeless, but it was 
for Nat that she felt most concerned. 

Dear, merry Nat, when he told her of his love, 
looked at her pleadingly and said : “You have been 
an angel to me, Phoeb, ever since I was a kid! I 
just can’t give you up. You have always been so 
sweet to me that I felt sure you would marry me 
when I was old enough.” 

Phoebe could not resist a smile at this naive ad- 
mission, but she said gently: “I will always love 
you, Nat, but not in the way you mean, so let us for- 
get all about it, and be chums as we have always 
been.” 

The boy’s eyes filled with tears, but he took her 
proffered hand, and soon after rose to leave. When 
he got to the door he came back and Phoebe saw 
that there was something else that he wished to say. 

“What is it, Nat?” she asked kindly. 

“Phoeb,” he said, “don’t tell Eloise. She kids 
me so!” 

Phoebe, with a perfectly grave face, promised not 
to tell, but when he was gone she could not restrain 
a merry laugh at his expense. He was such a boy ! 

Paul spent many of his evenings with Phoebe and 
Miss McClintock, but he was always busy during 
the daylight hours, so Phoebe was surprised one 
morning to get a note from him asking her to go 
sleigh-riding with him that afternoon. 

They rode again over the river road, the same that 


72 


PHOEBE 


they had ridden over that sweet spring afternoon 
nearly two years before. 

The queer impromptu sleigh was made comfort- 
able with rugs and hot bricks, and Phoebe, in a 
long dark coat and crimson muffler and hat, looked 
adorable. There was a new, sweet softness and 
a fullness of content about her face that Paul had 
never seen before, and his heart sang within him, 
for at last he knew that he was to obtain his heart’s 
desire. He drove by devious windings through the 
snowbound woods, and many rabbits, frightened 
and cold, sat up and viewed their strange progress 
with wide, startled eyes. The tall pines stood sen- 
tinel over all, while in the underbrush holly, glis- 
tening with red berries, and clumps of sombre cedar 
made patches of color against the dazzling back- 
ground of snow. 

Finally they came to the river road, and Paul 
pulled his horse down to a walk. Phoebe’s heart 
beat a little thickly, and she felt suddenly frightened 
and longed to run away. 

In order to cover her confusion she talked very 
fast about nothing in particular. 

Paul listened in silence, which at last grew em- 
barrassing, and Phoebe glanced covertly to see his 
face. She saw that he was looking ill, and that his 
face was drawn and white. 

Her heart smote her and she half opened her lips 
to speak, but he stopped her. His voice was hoarse 


PHOEBE 73 

with emotion, and she could see his pulses leaping at 
his temples. 

“I have brought you here, Phoebe, because I love 
you, and I want you for my wife. Child, child, you 
do not know! This agony is killing me! I can’t 
wait any longer. O Phoebe, tell me that you love 
me and that you will be my wife.” 

Phoebe, all her maidenly reserve swept from her 
by his passionate tenderness, turned and kissed him 
softly on the lips. 

“Now you know,” she said gently. 

But even that did not satisfy him. He wished to 
hear her say the words, so looking sweetly into his 
eyes, she said, “I love you, Paul, and I will be your 
wife.” 

Just then the sun came from behind a cloud and 
flooded the whole glistening world with radiance. 

“It is an omen !” cried Paul, and it was well that 
the horse was tried and gentle, for he received very 
little attention during the remainder of that ride. 


CHAPTER IX 


Miss Allison’s delight was unbounded when 
Phoebe and Paul, hand in hand and making a great 
show of rustic bashfulness, came in and craved her 
blessing. Neither of them had ever said anything 
to her, but she had made a shrewd guess as to how 
matters stood between them, and had forborne to 
question. Now that all had come right her pleasure 
in their happiness was beautiful to see. 

She agreed with Paul in urging an early wedding, 
so Phoebe promised that if Dr. and Mrs. Middleton 
were willing she would marry him early in October. 
Paul begged for an earlier date than that. To him 
October seemed very far away. But Phoebe urged 
that it would be Clay’s last summer at home, and she 
must be with him; so Paul had to yield the point, 
much against his wishes. 

It was settled that he would go down to Sunny 
Side with Phoebe the next day and obtain Dr. and 
Mrs. Middleton’s consent to their plans. Phoebe 
would not telegraph, as she knew that a telegram 
would alarm her mother, who was already not 
strong; but Paul, she said, could easily hire a horse 
in King’s Quarter and ride over to Sunny Side. 

74 


PHOEBE 


75 

Phoebe and Paul went to King’s Quarter together, 
and Dr, Middleton met them. 

Phoebe went home with her father, in the buggy, 
as she wished to speak to him and to her mother be- 
fore Paul should arrive. So having cautioned Paul 
to bring the mail when he came over, she left him in 
King’s Quarter. 

Late that afternoon, when Paul arrived at Sunny 
Side, he could see through the open window the 
cheerful glow of an open fire. In the corner, shad- 
ing her face from the light, sat Mrs. Middleton, her 
form thinner and her hair grayer than he had re- 
membered them. In front of the fire, with Bluff’s 
head on his knee, sat the doctor, resting, his head 
thrown back and his eyes closed. At the piano, 
dressed in a dress of soft white wool, sat Phoebe. 
Her hands were touching the keys lovingly and her 
face had that sweet far-away expression that he had 
seen the first day that he met her. 

As he paused for an instant, looking in, he could 
hear the sweet, pure voice singing softly: 

“Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, 

“I wad fain be gangin’ noo, until my Saviour’s breast, 
“For he gathers in his bosom witless, worthless lambs 
like me, 

“And he’ carries them himsel’ to his ain countrie.” 

Paul felt the same thing grip his throat that he 
had felt that Sunday afternoon long ago, and he 
knew then that he had loved her from the first. 


76 


PHOEBE 


As he looked into the peaceful room, he seemed to 
understand for the first time the enormity that he 
was committing in demanding of these parents their 
lovely young daughter. “God help me,'’ he thought, 
“they shall never regret it. Never!" 

He raised his hand to the knocker. Phoebe ran 
out in sweet, informal fashion to meet him, and tak- 
ing him by the hand led him in to her father and 
mother. 

Later in the evening, as they all sat around the 
fire, Phoebe suddenly remembered the mail. Yes, 
there was one letter for Dr. Middleton, and Paul, 
apologizing for his remissness, handed it to him. 

They were all startled a moment later to hear the 
doctor make a gasping sound, and Phoebe reached 
his side just in time to save him from falling. 

“Oh, Henry, what is it!" Mrs. Middleton cried. 
“Is it news from A1 ?" 

Phoebe had laid the doctor back in the big easy 
chair and was fanning him anxiously. Paul picked 
the letter up from where it had fallen on the 
floor. It was dated from El Paso, February 3 , and 
ran as follows: 

My dear Dr. Middleton: 

I am a nurse in the Presbyterian Mission Hospital at this 
place, and I am writing you at the request of one of our 
patients. 

He is a young fellow about twenty years of age, and says 
he is your son, and that his name is Allison McClintock 
Middleton. Truth compels me to add that he is in% very 


PHOEBE 


77 


bad way, having been badly injured in a wreck, and I doubt 
if he is still living when this reaches you. I wished to tele- 
graph, but he said it would frighten his mother, and that he 
preferred that I should write. Believe me, we will do all in 
our power to minister to him, both physically and spiritually; 
and, having prepared the way by letter, will telegraph you 
when any change occurs. I hardly think it possible that he 
will live until you could get here, so will not advise you to 
come. 

Again extending my sympathy and assurance that every- 
thing possible will be done to make him confortable, I am. 
Yours in the faith, 

Marjorie McDonald. 

Sad as were the tidings, they all felt that even the 
certainty of Al’s accident was easier to bear than 
the dread under which they had lived for so long. 

The greater part of the night was spent in hurried 
consultation and preparation, and Dr. and Mrs. 
Middleton gave evidence of the sustaining power of 
the faith that they professed. There was no outcry, 
but each did the thing that was to be done. 

It was decided that Dr. Middleton, Bruce, and 
Paul should go, while Clay should come home to be 
with Mrs. Middleton and Phoebe. 

Telegrams to the boys, and a special delivery letter 
to Miss McClintock, completed the night’s work; 
and, when morning came. Dr. Middleton and Paul 
were far on their way to Melrose, where they were 
to be joined by Bruce. 

So far there had been no telegram, and that com- 
forted them a little. 


78 


PHOEBE 


One sweet thought kept whispering at Phoebe’s 
heart, during all the days of suspense and pain that 
followed, and that was that her Paul had been a 
comfort to her father, and that already she saw that 
Dr. Middleton leaned on him as on a son. 

The rest is soon told. A1 lived until his father 
reached him, and then died with his bright head on 
the old doctor’s breast. 

“Tell mother,” he said, “that I never forgot her, 
and that I found that Friend she used to tell me 
about, and I am not afraid.” 

“And, father,” he said, after a little, “tell Phoeb 
that for her sake I never mistreated any woman. 
She was so square, Phoeb was.” 

He did not speak again, and just at sunset the 
young life went out on the wide sea of eternity. 

It seemed that when he first reached El Paso, he 
failed somehow to meet McGuire. He was prac- 
tically without money, and was too proud to write 
home, so things went from bad to worse with him, 
and he was reduced to the direst straits. He had 
plenty of pluck, but he was a tenderfoot, and he 
would not do a dishonorable thing, so it was hard 
for him to find work that he would do. 

Finally, though, he had obtained a permanent 
position as fireman on one of the great freight lines, 
and was writing to tell his mother when the crash 
came. He was horribly mangled, but his bright 
young head and his face, grown pathetically old, 
were not disfigured. 


PHOEBE 79 

They brought him home, and laid him under the 
oaks in the old churchyard. 

Mrs. Middleton never recovered from his death, 
and before the late roses bloomed she, too, had gone 
to rest. 

So in October, when Phoebe was married only 
Aunt Allison and Eloise came to the wedding, and it 
was a very sad Phoebe, in her plain white wedding 
dress, who laid her flowers on two new graves, over 
one of which the grass had not yet grown green. 
And it was a very tender Clay whose voice pro- 
nounced Paul and Phoebe husband and wife. 

Bruce had brought his young bride home in June, 
and Dr. Middleton was to live with them at the 
old home. Clay was to spend a few days with 
Phoebe in her new home in Melrose, and then he 
was to leave for his island home in the great Pacific. 



I 


V 


i 


V 


I 











BOOK III 

THE NEW NEST 


Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! 
That Youth’s sweet-scented manuscript should close I 
The Nightingale that in the branches sang, 
Whence, and whither flown again, who knows? 

— Omar Khayyam. 






I 


CHAPTER I 

Five years have passed. Paul and Phoebe, in 
their tiny house with its wide garden, had been hap- 
pier than usually falls to the lot of mortals. At 
first, after Clay left and the long strain to appear 
brave was over, Phoebe had given way to her grief. 
It had been hard for Paul to see her suffer when 
he could not help her, but he had wisely let her alone. 
He knew that with her training she would not long 
give way to useless repining, but that she would 
soon be casting about to see what her hands could 
find to do. 

They had brought Hester, Mammy Linda’s 
daughter, with them from Sunny Side, and it was 
not long before Phoebe, with a chastened look of 
sorrow on her sweet face and a little plaintive note 
of sadness in her voice, was taking an interest in 
house and garden. Away down under the pear trees 
at the back she and Hester even started a hive of 
bees. 

“You see, Paul enjoys honey so much,” she said, 
half apologetically, when Eloise rallied her about 
having a farm. 

What Paul liked and what Paul thought were 
subjects often on her tongue in those days. 

83 


84 


PHOEBE 


The first year passed swiftly by, with happy busy 
hours in house and garden, and with sweet cozy 
evenings with Paul. They read together and talked 
of what they read ; and then for the last thing Paul 
would always make her sing for him. He would 
tell her how beautiful she was and how much he 
loved her, and Phoebe’s heart sang within her. 

There were one or two short visits to Sunny Side, 
and Dr. Middleton and Bruce and Annie came up 
to spend the first Christmas in the dear little new 
home. They had a famous family dining on Christ- 
mas Day, at which Aunt A1 was the guest of honor, 
and many were the hearts that were gladdened by 
some simple remembrance from Phoebe and Paul. 
It was always Phoebe and Paul in those days. 

As the spring came on Phoebe found a sweet 
new interest in life, and before the holly berries 
had reddened for another Christmas her babies were 
born. Twin boys! Fine and sturdy and strong. 

She could never forget the gladness of Paul’s face 
when he came to her, nor the sweetness and peace of 
the first Sunday after the babies were born. Paul 
stayed with her all that day, and with clasped hands 
and bowed heads, out of their deep thankfulness 
they had repeated together the beautiful psalm, be- 
ginning, “Bless the Lord, O my soul : and all that is 
within me, bless His holy name.” 

Dr. Middleton had come up on a visit, and his 
pride and joy in the babies knew no bounds. 

Phoebe had lost some of her girlish slimness, and 


PHOEBE 


85 


had the fully developed bust and the broad hips that 
bespoke the crown of motherhood. Some persons 
even said that she had lost her elegant figure, but 
she only smiled, well content, and pirouetted about 
the room singing and shaking her head at her babies, 
while they stared at her with superhuman intelli- 
gence, but said never a word. 

Paul was more tender and devoted than ever, and 
sometimes clasping Phoebe in his arms, he would 
strain her to his heart and say, “O Phoebe, darling, 
you are so sweet, and I am so happy !” 

Phoebe had been reared in an old-fashioned 
school, and she preferred to take care of her babies 
herself during the night; besides. Mammy Linda 
was getting old now, and had to be considered. 
Phoebe had two little white cribs put in the airy 
sleeping-room by the pretty brass beds, and she and 
Paul each took care of a baby. She contrived the 
ingenious plan of exchanging the babies each night, 
‘^So that they will love us exactly even,” she laugh- 
ingly said. 

However, there were times when things were not 
so very pleasant, for sometimes the boys behaved 
as if they had not had the advantage of either family 
or of training. As old Dr. Carmichael expressed it, 
“They simply raised Cain.” 

They were good babies on the whole, though, and 
very healthly. They had fine sturdy limbs, and 
looked exactly alike ; both had rich auburn hair and 
brown eyes. 


86 


PHOEBE 


A little carriage for two! Two little tubs! Two 
little rattles exactly alike! Then a little later two 
little shovels and pails, two little drums, two little 
soldier suits! Ah, those were happy days! 

The day of all days during their babyhood that 
stood out most clearly in Phoebe’s memory was the 
mild spring Sunday when the babies were baptized. 

Dr. Middleton came up for the occasion. Eloise 
left her church for the day, and stayed with Mammy 
Linda and the babies, and saw that each of them 
was looking his best. 

Of course. Miss Allison was there, covering her 
tender old heart with a very severe and puritanical 
expression of face. 

When that part of the service where infants are 
presented for baptism arrived, the whole great con- 
gregation stood and sang: 

“From all that dwell below the skies, 

“Let the Creator’s praise arise; 

“Let the Redeemer’s praise be sung, 

“Through every land, by every tongue.” 

In the solemn hush that followed. Dr. Middleton, 
bearing Henry Clay Middleton, and Paul, look- 
ing gravely happy and carrying little Paul Davidge, 
walked up the middle aisle to the pulpit. Phoebe, a 
little tremulous and pale, walked behind with 
Mammy Linda. 

In a few moments the solemn vows were taken, 
and the beautiful prayer offered, in which the white- 


PHOEBE 


87 


haired pastor prayed that the babies would grow in 
beauty of person and character, and increase in 
favor with God and man. Then the babies, Paul 
sucking a fat thumb, and Clay with one little hand 
on Dr. Middleton’s cheek, were borne out, and so 
was concluded a most beautiful and touching scene. 
Phoebe’s sweet face showing that like that mother of 
old she kept and pondered these thoughts in her 
heart. 

The first five years had slipped by, and the boys 
had now reached their fourth year. It was Phoebe’s 
pride and joy to take them out with her, and the 
beautiful woman with the two handsome boys was 
a charming sight to see. She had them with her 
almost every hour of the day, and their quaint, 
bright speeches were a constant source of delight 
to her. 

Paul was working very hard, for their expenses 
had of course almost doubled. They were having 
some trouble at the mills, too, and they had to cut 
down expenses there, so Paul was doing double 
duty. He was even having to work in the evenings 
most of the time, and to Phoebe’s loving eyes was 
looking worn and ill. 


CHAPTER II 


During the first two years of her married life 
Phoebe had been in mourning, and then the boys had 
come and claimed all her time, so she had not 
mingled with the social circles of Melrose. Now, 
however, the boys were old enough for Mammy 
Linda and Hester to manage them nicely and she 
had commenced at Paul’s urgent request to take her 
proper place in society. 

A rather gay society life had sprung up in Melrose 
during the years since Phoebe had visited there, 
and among the people composing this set she found 
herself quite a stranger. As soon, however, as it 
became known that the beautiful Mrs. Hamilton was 
beginning to go out again this set received her most 
cordially into its midst. Invitations to teas, recep- 
tions, clubs, and card parties came thick and fast, 
and Phoebe was kept busy looking after clothes 
and making suitable response to the many invita- 
tions. 

She went everywhere, and even tried the card 
parties, for she had broadened in her views, and no 
longer held that the mere playing of a game of cards 
was a sin. 


88 


PHOEBE 


89 


For one whole winter she had called on people in 
whom she had no interest, and with whom she 
had nothing in common. She had rushed frantically 
to catch cars in order to go to parties that she did 
not care for; and she had strained Paul’s patience 
and his purse by having to get clothes to wear to 
entertainments, when they both would much have 
preferred to stay at home and romp with the babies 
or have a cozy, quiet evening together. For Paul’s 
evenings at home were becoming increasingly few. 

To a woman reared as Phoebe had been — to a 
woman who had looked on the still faces of her 
dead — such a life was impossible. All her life she 
had been taught that “man’s chief end is to glorify 
God, and enjoy him forever,” and she could not 
feel that she lived up to this high calling when she 
no longer had time for, or took pleasure in, read- 
ing her Bible or going to church. Her babies had 
to be left almost entirely to the care of servants, 
and she hardly ever saw Paul, except during a 
hasty breakfast, which he ate with his paper before 
him, hurrying to catch a car. Such was the state 
of affairs when on the Sunday afternoon of which 
I write, she and Paul took the boys for a walk down 
the dear old river road. 

They were nearing home, and little Paul and Clay 
were running ahead, Paul as usual leading and Clay 
following exactly in his footsteps. 

“I have made up my mind to one thing,” said 


90 


PHOEBE 


Phoebe, “I am not going to attempt to go into so- 
ciety another winter.” 

“Why have you reached that conclusion?” asked 
Paul, smiling. “I thought you seemed to be having 
rather a good time. Every time I go on the street 
somebody compliments me on my beautiful wife, or 
repeats something witty she has said, or tells me 
she sings like an angel or something of the sort. 
Really, I quite feel as if I shine in your reflected 
glory.” 

Paul looked teasingly at her. Phoebe tried hard 
not to smile, but the dimples would come. She was 
only a woman after all. 

“You are laughing at me,” she said, “but I am 
quite in earnest. I think I must have something 
primitive in my nature, for the life of a society 
woman bores me. The club women are so im- 
portant they think that they are settling the affairs 
of the universe. The scandal at the teas and the 
inane chatter over clothes and refreshments at the 
card parties positively nauseate me.” 

Paul laughed. “Aren’t you putting it pretty 
strong?” he asked. 

“No, Pm not! I just wish you could hear them. 
You would wonder how I have stood it this long. 
I am not a child, nor a fool ! Pm a woman !” 

Paul laughed with delight. 

“I just wish some of them could hear you,” he 
said. “Wouldn’t they tear you to pieces the next 
time that they meet? I knew you were going it 


PHOEBE 


91 


pretty strong, and that the probabilities were that 
you would get enough, but you seem to have gotten 
an overdose.” 

“I suspect I do sound ungrateful,” she said, “for 
people have been awfully nice to me, but I would 
rather be sentenced to penal servitude than feel that 
I had to live all my life as I have lived for the past 
year. Yet some people seem to like it. I heard old 
Mrs. Bland, who is seventy years old if she is a day, 
say with the pleasure of a girl of fifteen that Eloise’s 
was the third function that she had attended that 
day. Imagine Aunt Allison tearing around from 
one party to another. Three a day. And hunting 
up something different to wear to each one!” 
Phoebe’s scorn was unbounded. 

“Well, I flatter myself that I have a fairly good 
imagination, but I confess I am not equal to that 
stretch,” laughed Paul. “But look here, girlie,” he 
added thoughtfully, “you mustn’t become strong- 
minded. Womanliness, after all, is a woman’s chief 
charm.” He laid his hand gently on her arm. 

“I know what you mean,” she answered softly, 
“and of course I wouldn’t talk so violently to any- 
body but you. But, do you know, I don’t see why 
retailing unkind things about one’s neighbors, or 
twaddling ceaselessly about clothes or what people 
have to eat, necessarily makes a woman womanly. 
I can think of a number of charming people that I 
would like to know well and to have in our home. 
And I know of delightful ways to spend our time, if 


92 


PHOEBE 


I only had you at home too. But you usually are 
so tired, or you can’t come at all, and of course, I 
couldn’t and wouldn’t have people here without 
you.” Phoebe spoke regretfully. 

“Never mind, sweetheart, next winter you can 
start your parties, warranted to be uplifting and 
congenial, and I’ll be with you every time,” and 
Paul pinched his wife’s pretty chin, and kissed her 
softly on the lips as he closed the door, for they had 
reached home, and had run up the steps, hand in 
hand, girl and boy fashion. 


CHAPTER III 


But the next winter Paul was busier than ever. 
The mills were still having trouble, and he was 
working every day and all day and often even into 
the night to get them into good condition. As fast 
as one item demanding his time and attention was 
disposed of something else would come up, and 
Phoebe saw practically nothing of him. Her wifely 
pride in him was touched, but her woman's heart 
was lonely. 

She could have filled her home with the most 
charming people in the city. Her beauty and charm 
and her delightful voice made her a welcome addi- 
tion to the most exclusive circle, even regardless of 
the fact that she and Paul belonged to two of the 
oldest and best families in the state. Her pride 
rebelled, however, and a strong sense of wifely 
propriety would not admit of her filling Paul’s home 
with guests when she never knew if he could be 
there to receive them. 

During the years that she had done nothing else 
outside of her home she had done a good deal of 
church work. In a large city church, however, and 
with very limited means, she felt that she could not 
93 


94 


PHOEBE 


presume to lead those that plainly were of so much 
more importance than herself. The struggle for 
prominence among those that did lead disgusted her, 
so that she was content to work very quietly, even at 
the risk of being misunderstood. 

She also was interested to some extent in public 
matters, and was of the greatest assistance to Paul 
in ameliorating the conditions of the women and 
children that worked in the mills. She gave to the 
subject time and thought and found out the condi- 
tions that surrounded their work in other sections. 
In this old-fashioned community, however, women 
were not supposed nor desired to take any prominent 
part even in much needed reforms. One phase of 
work that she thoroughly enjoyed was among the 
poor in the mill villages. She was known and be- 
loved by young and old among them, and many a 
sad and weary soul, many a sick and dying one, was 
helped and cheered by her gentle ministrations. The 
only thing that prevented her and the little boys 
from spending a great deal of their time in this 
way was the lack of means. 

Paul was working very hard and straining every 
nerve to provide a competency for his family and 
his investments were good ; still they had to exercise 
the strictest economy in their expenditures, and 
Phoebe had to deny herself the great pleasure of 
giving. 

She sang in the choir, and she and Paul both 
taught in the Sunday-school, and she gave a great 


PHOEBE 


95 


deal of time to the care of her boys. Still there 
were very many times when she was lonely. Make 
as many interests for herself as she could outside 
there were often times when she had to be in her 
home, and whenever she was there she missed Paul. 
She missed her father’s petting and her mother’s 
gentle companionship, she missed Bruce’s sweet 
ways, she missed Clay’s devotion, she missed Al’s 
bright nonsense! 

About this time golf commenced to be played in 
the south; and Phoebe always vigorous and active, 
took to it at once. It was a charming sight to see 
her and her two beautiful boys going across the 
links together, and many were the admiring glances 
cast her way by the male golfers. Many were 
the merry golf parties that she could have joined, 
had not her pride and her loyalty forbidden her 
going into a mixed company of which her husband 
was not a member, nor even an invited guest. Her 
marriage vows were sacred to her, and she always 
carried herself with a sweet dignity that kept men at 
a distance. 

Since her boys had been four years old the cry of 
her heart had been for a little daughter, but no other 
child ever came to her. 

''Oh, Eloise,” she said once to Eloise, who had 
married Clifford Dawson three years before and 
had a fair little golden-haired girl very like herself, 
"I would give anything if she were mine. I long so 
for a baby girl all my very own ! The boys are getting 


96 


PHOEBE 


so big now, and insist on bringing frogs into the 
house. And they just will play baseball, and they 
get so soiled and smelly.” Phoebe turned up her 
pretty nose in affected disdain, but Eloise laughed 
merrily. 

“What a picture !” she cried, “I don’t wonder you 
would like a dear, dainty little daughter to help you 
counterbalance that.” 

“The only thing that helps to reconcile me,” 
laughed Phoebe, “is that she wouldn’t be dainty if 
she were my daughter. She would keep up with 
her brothers, or she would die in the attempt.” 

The boys really were getting very big, and were 
out almost all day, and Phoebe was more and more 
lonely as the years went by. Paul was with her 
less and less as the business at the mills increased; 
and when he did occasionally spend an evening with 
her he was too tired to talk, and generally sat with 
closed eyes, far back in an easy chair, resting — 
except when answering repeated calls at the tele- 
phone. He was completely immersed in business, 
and except on Sundays, when they went to church 
together if he were not too tired to go, she never 
went out with him at all. 

Phoebe did enjoy golf immensely, though, and 
she took great pride in being the champion woman 
golfer of Melrose. This was to be a short-lived 
pleasure, however. One day as she was return- 
ing on the car from the links, she sat behind two 
men that she did not know. She was immediately 


PHOEBE 


97 


behind, so could not help hearing what they were 
saying. 

“By the way,” said one, “was the handsome 
woman we saw at the links Paul Hamilton’s wife?” 

“Yes,” said the other, “and it is perfectly shame- 
ful the way he neglects her.”' 

“You don’t mean ?” 

“Oh, no, he’s all right; but if he cares anything 
about her, he certainly does not show it. You 
would think a man would care for a handsome 
woman like that, too, but he doesn’t. He’s all for 
business !” 

Phoebe rose and left the car at the next corner, 
her cheeks aflame, and after that she went no more 
to the golf links. 

She wondered sometimes that she did feel so ab- 
solutely sure of Paul’s love and fidelity, since he 
was away from her so much. Her faith in him, 
however, was perfect, and the thought of his love 
during all these lonely years was her greatest com- 
fort next to her faith in God. 

Many times she took the boys down to see their 
Grandmother Hamilton and their fair and gentle 
Aunt Sybil, who had never walked. They were a 
little frightened at her at first, because she was so 
fair and fragile, and they looked at her with great, 
solemn, wondering brown eyes. They soon learned 
to adore her, however, for she could tell excellent 
stories. 

Often, too, they went to Sunny Side, and these 


98 


PHOEBE 


visits to the country delighted Phoebe almost as 
much as they did the boys, and she entered into 
their pleasure like one of themselves. 

“Oh, mother,” said little Paul one day, “you must 
have had an awfully good time when you were a 
little boy. You know how to play such good plays,” 
and the little fellow threw his arms around her 
neck, and covered her face with warm kisses. 

Then Clay climbed up, in a burst of emotion, and 
cried, “Me, too, mother, me too !” 

Then Phoebe took them in the big chair, where 
there was room enough for all three, and in the 
soft glow of the firelight told them of their Uncles 
Bruce and Clay : and then so tenderly of their young 
Uncle Al, who died in that far-away, strange time 
before their father and mother were married. 

Two or three times she and Paul had slipped 
away for a little change and rest, leaving the boys 
with Aunt Allison, who, against all reason, idolized 
them, and let them do exactly as they pleased. Once 
they went to New York for a season in Wagnerian 
grand opera, and had enjoyed it as only those can 
that lead an abstemious and quiet life. 

During these little trips away Paul was all that 
heart could wish, tender and devoted. They would 
come back home determined to be more together, 
but business, that mighty Octopus, invariably forced 
them apart. 

So the years rolled by. 

Dr. Middleton had passed quietly and painlessly 


PHOEBE 


99 


into the great beyond. One morning he did not 
come down as usual, and when they went to call 
him, he lay quite still with a look of great peace on 
his worn old face. This was another great grief 
to Phoebe, and it was hard for her to be comforted ; 
but she was beginning to learn the lesson of life 
now, and she knew that for him it was far better. 

Then dear Aunt Allison was taken ill and passed 
away. Phoebe nursed her like a tender daughter 
during her brief, but painful illness, and it was 
Phoebe’s loving hand that did the last sacred things 
for her, and that smoothed the snowy hair above 
the serene old face that seemed to shine with a 
radiance not of earth. 

Her last words were: “Phoebe, child, you have 
been so good to me. I will tell Alice and Henry 
to-night.” 

Then she said, “Sing,” and while the sweet voice, 
all tremulous with feeling, sang, “So I’m watchin’ 
aye and singin’ o’ my home as I wait,” she slipped 
away to her Father’s house. 

Miss McClintock’s death made a great change in 
Paul and Phoebe’s fortune, for she left everything, 
including her beautiful old home and all her library 
of charming books, to Phoebe. 

Bruce had sent them all the old books that had be- 
longed to Dr. Middleton’s father, and, with their 
own small but well chosen library, Phoebe and 
Paul had an unusually large collection of books. 
Paul wrote to Boston and asked a friend of his 


100 


PHOEBE 


there to send him a man to classify and catalogue 
them. 

All that winter after they moved from the dear 
little house where they had lived for fourteen years, 
Phoebe sat alone, or quietly while Paul worked or 
rested; and she read and read and read, or thought 
and thought and thought. 

She was a woman no longer young, but still re- 
markably beautiful in her midsummer ripeness. 
She thought of no possible change in her condition, 
and if any change had been suggested to her, she 
would have said that she was quite happy. She 
still had red blood in her veins, however, and she 
was deadly dull. She was a fine, beautiful, cul- 
tured woman, but many of her splendid capabilities 
were lying fallow. 


BOOK IV 


THE STRANGE BIRD 


The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, 
Moves on : nor all thy Piety nor Wit 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, 
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it. 

— Omar Khayyam. 



CHAPTER I 


Miss McClintock’s fine old place, Maplewood, was 
on the outskirts of Melrose, and combined the ad- 
vantages of country and city. The boys enjoyed 
the life there very much. On their eighth birthday 
Miss Allison had given to each of them a pony, and 
they had become expert riders. 

They greatly enjoyed swimming in the large pool 
at the back of the garden. It was always shady and 
cool there, even when the sun was shining hottest. 
A hedge of oleanders made the spot private. Phoebe 
had had a rustic seat built nearby, and she often 
sat there with a book, or with her work when it was 
warm elsewhere. She had always insisted that the 
boys spend a large part of each day in the open air. 
She never had been willing for them to have guns, 
however, though they had pleaded most earnestly. 

“O mother, please T said Paul. 

“O mother, darling, please!” said Clay. 

“We are fourteen now, and awfully strong,” they 
said. 

“We are big and strong enough to be trusted with 
guns,” said Paul. 

“Feel our muscle!” cried Clay, and they each 
presented a firm young arm held taut for her to feel. 

She professed gratification and amazement at 
their Samson-like development, and thus mollified 
it was easier for them to bear her decision. 

103 


104 


PHOEBE 


‘‘No, boys, I am not willing for you to have guns. 
Guns are to kill with, and I don’t want you to learn 
to love killing. I wish you to learn to help every 
feeble creature on God’s earth.” 

Instead, she encouraged them to have a perfect 
menagerie of pets of all kinds. 

The family had been settled at Maplewood for 
nearly a year. It was again Sunday afternoon early 
in May, and the garden below and the sky above 
vied with each other in beauty. Phoebe and Paul 
were sitting on the rustic seat, talking. The two 
boys had been playing with two frisky young Irish 
setters, and had run and laughed so much that 
Phoebe felt that the proprieties were involved, and 
had sent them to read to Mammy Linda, for the 
poor old woman was helpless and quite blind. She 
lived with Hester and William in a little house near 
the stable. Phoebe was looking almost girlishly 
young. Her hair, turning slightly gray, was ar- 
ranged in the prevailing mode, with many soft 
puffs, and she wore a dress of soft pale muslin. She 
had lost her girlish slimness, but she did not look 
coarse nor overblown. Her coloring was still deli- 
cate, and the expression of her soft dark eyes 
and of the firm, yet gentle, mouth was gravely 
sweet. It was the face of a woman that had looked 
on life, and that knew something of its mystery. 
The lines of her figure were full and long, and she 
still walked and carried her head like a queen. 

Nor had the years been less kind to Paul. His 


PHOEBE 105 

fine face and distinguished appearance would have 
singled him out in any assemblage. 

Phoebe was saying, “How long do you think he 
will have to stay?” 

“I have no idea, but I imagine for a month or 
two, at least. The books seem to be in bad shape 
and they are too valuable to be neglected.” If Paul 
had a weakness, it was the love of books. 

“Poor old things ! They do look neglected. Why, 
some of Grandfather Middleton’s look as if they 
might have come out of the Ark.” 

“I am told that he had some very valuable edi- 
tions, and that he was quite a collector of rare 
books,” Paul answered. 

“The first novel I ever read I dug out of his col- 
lection. It was Ivanhoe. Clay and A 1 and I had a 
tournament afterward, and had great fun,” laughed 
Phoebe. 

“I suppose you took the part of Rowena or 
Rebecca,” Paul suggested. 

“Oh, no, I didn’t. I was the Black Knight. 
Maum Sylvie’s two little black granddaughters were 
the fair ladies. We ran in the lane back of the 
carriage-house, and all the little negroes on the place 
were spectators,” Phoebe reminisced softly. 

“How I wish I had known you then,” Paul said 
tenderly. “I always feel that I wasted so much 
time before I met you.” 

“I feel that we waste so much now, dear. We see 


io6 


PHOEBE 


so little of each other, and we are getting old. Omar 
Khayyam is right when he says, 

“ ‘The Bird of Time has but a little way 
“ ‘To flutter — and the Bird is on the Wing.’ ” 

“Never mind, love, it will not always be like 
this. You see I am obliged to think of the future 
of these boys.” 

“You always think of the money, Paul, but I 
don’t want any more money. We have enough now 
to live on in our quiet way. All in the world that 
I want, darling, is you” 

And then for a few minutes they were as foolish 
as the most foolish heart could wish. 

When Phoebe had emerged, she reverted to the 
matter of the books, and said, “By the way, when is 
this personage coming?” 

“Let me see,” said Paul, “the letter said the sixth 
or seventh, and this is the sixth, isn’t it? Well, he 
isn’t here, so I suppose he will come to-morrow. 

Could you let him stay here ? We are 
so far out that I think he would find it more con- 
venient.” 

“I suppose so,” said Phoebe carelessly, and that 
ended the matter. 

Just then Eloise and Clifford and little Eloise 
came in, and a little later came Major Dalrymple, 
who had never married. He adored Phoebe’s boys. 


CHAPTER II 


It was a cool evening early in May. In the great 
northern city of Boston there was scarcely as yet 
even a promise of spring. Two figures, a man and a 
girl, were walking briskly along a quiet street. The 
houses, on either side, were of that neat and substan- 
tial appearance that denotes culture and refinement 
though no great amount of wealth in their pos- 
sessors. The man was young and tall and well 
made; but as we shall shortly see him again under 
other circumstances, it is to the girl’s appearance 
that we shall pay special attention. She was of 
medium height, and was well formed. She carried 
herself with the assured ease of a person that was 
well-bred, and that had always walked on the paved 
streets of a city. Her hair, of which she had a great 
quantity, was a pale shade of light brown. Her 
eyes, light brown when in the shade, were gray when 
in the light. She had a long, good nose, and a 
small, delicate mouth that when she smiled, which 
was seldom, disclosed a row of small, even, white 
teeth. Her coloring was very delicate on her cheek 
and lips, yet it showed sound health. It was a 
sweet, fair, pensive face, the face of one that a 
child would instinctively turn to and trust. 


io8 


PHOEBE 


She was speaking in a tone full and sweet, yet 
distinctly northern. 

“Do you still think you will go south to-morrow 
afternoon, Richard?” she said. 

“Yes, I thought you knew that it was settled. 
Erickson says they wish me to come as soon as 
possible, so the sooner the better, say I,” and the 
man’s face beamed with pleasant anticipation. 

“But it is very far, and so many things might 
happen. You will be glad to get back, will you 
not?” There was pensive tenderness in her voice, 
but the gentle, high-bred face did not change. 

“Oh, I’ll be glad enough, but you must remember 
I have never been so far south before, and I’ll enjoy 
the experience. I always have liked going to new 
places and seeing new things. If I were rich, I 
should be a regular globe-trotter !” 

“I am glad then that you are not rich, for it 
seems to me you are away a great deal as it is. 
First it was all the years at the University, and 
now that you have been doing this library work I 
feel as if you are always on the wing.” 

Was there a little note of pathos in the sweet 
voice? If so, it was quickly overcome, for presently 
she asked : 

“How do you travel? By boat?” 

“Only part of the way. I go by train from Ports- 
mouth.” 

They had now turned in at a pair of snowy 
marble steps, and had rung the bell. 


PHOEBE 


109 

“Will you come in and see mother?” asked the 
girl. 

“Well yes,” the man answered a trifle indif- 

ferently. When the trim maid opened the door they 
went in together. 

“Is that you, Minerva?” called a gentle voice 
from within. 

“Yes, mother,” answered the girl, “and Richard 
is with me. Ell lay off my coat, and then we will 
come in.” She took off her trim blue jacket as 
she spoke, and then, taking off her close-fitting 
blue walking-hat, she hung them in the hall. With 
her pretty, white, gloveless hands she pushed up her 
hair until it fluffed softly. As she did so there was 
the sparkle of a solitaire diamond on the third finger 
of her left hand. 

Turning to Richard, who had been standing hat 
in hand watching her, she said : 

“Aren’t you going to take off your coat? I am 
sure mother will ask you to dinner ” 

“That will be awfully kind, but I can’t stay to- 
night. I have some things I must do before I 
leave home; and, besides, mother expects me back 
to dine with her this evening.” 

The girl turned without further speech, and, 
pushing open the drawing-room door, ushered him 
into the room where her mother sat. 

Mrs. Chippendale was just an older edition of 
her daughter except that what was as yet softness 
in the girl had hardened into firmness and strength 


no 


PHOEBE 


in the mother, and while the girl’s abundant hair 
was pale brown, the mother’s was silvery white. 

The room that the young people entered was cozy 
and refined. From a bowl on the table came the 
odor of old-fashioned English violets. 

“How sweet the violets are,” said Richard, as, 
after having spoken to Mrs. Chippendale, he walked 
over to the table and helped himself to two or three. 

“Yes,” said Minerva, “are they not delicious? 
Mother grew them under glass, and they certainly 
are repaying her for her care. We have had some 
for the house for several days now.” 

Richard, upon being urged, sat down on the edge 
of his chair, and twirled his hat restlessly in his 
hands. 

“Will you not stay to dinner?” Mrs. Chippendale 
asked. He declined, saying that he was not dressed 
for dinner and that his mother was expecting him 
at home. 

“As for the dress I will excuse that,” Mrs. Chip- 
pendale said, “and you can ’phone Marcia that we 
kept you. She will understand when she knows that 
you are here.” 

So Richard consented to stay. Minerva ran upstairs 
and in a little while came down in a dress of soft, 
clinging gray, embroidered with violets, and two 
or three of the same sweet flowers were caught in 
the lace at her throat. She was very sweet and fair 
and gentle looking, but there was a shadow, as of 
unshed tears, in her quiet eyes. 


PHOEBE 


III 


Mrs. Chippendale remained out of the drawing- 
room until dinner was announced, as she was at- 
tending to some household matter. Richard and 
Minerva were alone. 

“How often may I expect a letter while you are 
away?” she asked. “You know the time will be 
dull for me without you.” 

“Oh, I shall certainly write every week; but you 
know from experience that I am a poor corres- 
pondent. What makes me care for you I believe 
almost more than anything else is that you don’t 
expect a man to be always writing love-letters and 
talking love. You are so sensible!” 

He patted her hand affectionately as he spoke, and 
looked kindly at her. The girl flushed faintly under 
the compliment, or the touch or the look, or some- 
thing, but did not answer. She looked steadily into 
her lap. If Richard had put his hand under the 
pretty chin and had turned the grave eyes up to 
meet his own, he would have been surprised to see 
that they were shining with unshed tears. 

During the dinner, which was daintily served, the 
conversation was on general topics, and soon after- 
ward Richard rose to leave. 

Mrs. Chippendale was in the room when he said 
good-bye to Minerva. For an instant he hesitated, 
then he leaned over and kissed the girl on her 
smooth fair forehead. It was a light, unloverlike 
salute, but it made her tingle to her finger-tips. 

When he was gone she threw herself on her 


II2 


PHOEBE 


mother’s breast and sobbed as if her heart would 
break. 

“Oh, mother,” she said between her sobs, “there 
isn’t any use. I cannot make him love me. He 
thinks he cares, but I know that he does not.” 

Then her mother said gently: “Never mind, 
love, he will learn your value some day. Do not 
demand that which he cannot give, but hold your- 
self in readiness to meet his demands. Richard 
has not yet sounded his own depths. He does not 
yet know himself. When he does find himself and 
comes to you, be sure that your love is great 
enough to meet his needs. A great love ennobles 
character, my darling, and yours is great. Some- 
day you will get your reward. In the meantime be 
brave and sweet — and wait.” 

The mother kissed the girl tenderly, sent her to 
bed, and then sat until late into the night looking 
into the glowing fire. 

When Richard had said good-bye he slipped out 
into the chill night air, and, whistling softly, walked 
briskly up the street. Turning in when he came to 
one of a row of pretty houses, he inserted his night- 
key and let himself in. 

His mother was still sitting in the library near a 
coal-fire, while sitting near, reading by a shaded 
lamp, was his younger brother, Oliver. Mrs. Carey 
was a tiny, fragile creature, so dainty and fair that 
she looked like a piece of Dresden china, and it was 


PHOEBE 1 13 

hard to believe that she was the mother of the two 
tall young men that called her by that name. 

“I have been waiting for you, Richard,” she said 
as he entered the room. “How did you find Char- 
lotte and Minerva?” Then, without waiting for 
him to answer, she went on, “Have you made up 
your mind to go south to-morrow?” 

“Yes, mother,” he answered. “I shall like to go. 
You know I never have been South.” 

“I think I shall be very much relieved when 
you come back home. The only part of the south 
that is fit to visit is Florida. . . . You may 

be able to learn a great deal, however, about the 
negroes throughout that whole section. 

If you reach home safe, I shall be glad that you 
went, for I would like to know first-hand if the 
Southerners really do kill the negroes for sport.” 

Richard and Oliver exchanged glances, and then 
laughed; but the little lady sat very primly in her 
little chair and declined to be considered amusing. 


CHAPTER III 


The 6:30 A. M. train came rolling slowly into 
Melrose. A male passenger, who had the inde- 
scribable look of alert smartness that declared at 
once that he had been born north of Mason and 
Dixon’s line, heaved a sigh of relief at having ar- 
rived. 

He walked out of the Pullman, carrying his bag. 
As he came lightly down the steps and walked 
briskly up the long platform he showed off to ad- 
vantage. He appeared to be somewhere between 
thirty and thirty-five years old, and he had a tall, 
well-set-up figure, square-shouldered and lean, and 
a finely shaped head covered with closely cut light- 
brown hair. His face was good-looking and clean- 
shaven. He had a long, shrewd Yankee nose and 
a large, well-shaped, expressive mouth, full of strong 
white teeth. He had a pair of the tenderest, dreami- 
est gray eyes that ever belied a sensible, practical 
face. 

He stepped briskly up to a sleepy negro hackman 
that sat with one leg and slipshod foot hanging over 
the side of the hack while the horse stood dejectedly 


PHOEBE 


115 

on three legs. Referring to a memorandum that he 
had in his pocket the stranger asked in a voice dis- 
tinctly northern to be taken to Mr. Paul Hamil- 
ton’s place, Maplewood, at the end of Calhoun 
Street. 

He stepped into the hack, and was driven off 
lazily. And they ambled up the street, the hackman 
airing his views regardless of invitation. 

Richard Carey, for it was he, was looking out at 
this new world, with wide-open, interested eyes, 
and was taking in great breaths of the delicious soft 
morning air. 

It looked to him like an enchanted city that he 
was passing through. The houses sat far back in 
wide gardens, and the cool green blinds were still 
closed, suggesting to his fanciful mind, that the 
houses, as well as their occupants, were still asleep. 

In the gardens the roses were in full glory, red, 
pink, yellow, cream, and white. Indeed, there was 
every color of rose that one had ever seen or heard 
of, and their sweet odors were wafted by every 
straying breeze. Overhead the trees formed a 
feathery green arch, through which poured a golden 
rain of sunshine. 

Here was a world made for romance, and Richard 
Carey, whose tender, dreamy eyes betrayed him, was 
full of it. 

The drive to Maplewood took something over a 
half-hour, and during the whole of it they met no 
living creature except one or two negro cooks, who. 


ii6 


PHOEBE 


with baskets on their arms, were taking their 
leisurely way to their work. To Richard Carey even 
they seemed part of the enchantment, but then, 
he had never had one of them to cook for him. 

Maplewood, with wide piazza and overhanging 
eaves, sitting back in its beautiful old-fashioned 
garden, was one of the few places about Melrose 
that dated back before the war. Miss McClintock 
had inherited it from her mother, and during her 
lifetime she had kept it intact. Phoebe and Paul 
had added a large sleeping porch and a wide piazza 
on the side nearest the river, but otherwise the out- 
ward appearance had not been altered. 

The interior was beautifully furnished with price- 
less old furniture, much of which had been brought 
from Europe before the Revolution. 

Paul had had two large rooms on the west side 
of the house converted into one to form a library, 
and it was there that the books were to be arranged. 

The hackman leisurely drove around the circular 
drive, and stopped at the bottom of the wide stone 
steps. Just as Richard stepped from the vehicle 
the heavy front door was thrown violently open, and 
two sturdy boys of fourteen rushed out. 

They were exactly the same size and the same 
build. Both had closely cropped curly auburn hair 
and brown eyes : both had the same bright cheeks 
and merry smile, showing the same kind of white 
teeth : both had firm chins, cleft in the middle, and 
both had a bridge of freckles across a straight young 


PHOEBE 


117 

nose: both wore tan shoes and stockings, brown 
knickerbockers, white blouses, and blue-and-tan ties. 
To make the resemblance more complete, if tha^ 
were possible, each was chased by a half-grown 
Irish setter. 

The boys stopped short. Richard stared. He 
thought that the southern air had gone to his brain, 
that he had suddenly become mildly demented, that 
his malady was taking the form of a multiplicity of 
boys and dogs exactly alike. The boys saw his 
look of puzzled amazement and fell into a roulade 
of merry laughter, while the puppies rushed franti- 
cally around, barking as if they too were into the 
joke. 

Richard continued to stare, the boys laughed, the 
puppies barked, while the hackman took a chew of 
tobacco, and viewed the whole with mild, dis- 
passionate eye. 

Richard, still feeling that his reason tottered 
and that something must be done at once to arrest 
its fall, asked mildly, ''Are you Mr. Hamilton’s 
son?” 

Another roulade of laughter, another frantic rush 
of the frantic puppies, then Paul pulled himself 
together and said with dignity and putting accent 
on the plural: 

"We are his sons. I am Paul Davidge Hamilton, 
and this is my twin, Henry Clay Middleton Hamil- 
ton. You must be Mr. Carey.” Paul held out his 
hand as he spoke and then continued, "Our father 


ii8 


PHOEBE 


is expecting you. Come in, and we will tell him 
that you are here.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Paul Davidge Henry Clay 
Middleton Hamilton,” said Richard with a grave 
mouth but looking from one to the other with laugh- 
ing eyes. 

They ran off to call their father, both shouting 
back as they left the room each with a setter at his 
heels, “But we are two!” 

A half-hour later, when Paul ushered Richard 
into the dining-room, the boys had inveigled Hester 
into letting them have their breakfast and had al- 
ready gone. Phoebe, with her soft dark hair loosely 
coiled on the top of her head and with two or three 
soft curls touched with silver at her temples, was 
in the dining-room alone. 

She was wearing a simple morning dress of black 
and white muslin, and was arranging a handful of 
Duchess roses in a frosted glass bowl on the break- 
fast table. She had pinned one lovely cup-like 
blossom in the lace on the bosom of her dress. As 
she turned to greet the men her face still showed 
her pleasure in the task that she had been per- 
forming. 

“Phoebe,” said Paul, “this is Mr. Carey, whom 
we were expecting. Mr. Carey, this is my wife, 
Mrs. Hamilton.” 

Phoebe came forward graciously and cordially, 
and clasped Richard’s hand in a firm friendly grasp. 


CHAPTER IV 


During breakfast the conversation for a while 
was about Richard’s journey and the work with the 
books. Phoebe had little to say beyond seeing that 
their guest was comfortably served. 

Once Richard turned to her and said, ‘‘Those 
are two fine boys of yours, Mrs. Hamilton,” at 
which she dimpled and looked as pleased as a girl. 

After breakfast Paul took Richard into the library 
to talk over what was to be done, and a few minutes 
later they saw Phoebe crossing the yard carrying 
a covered tray. Paul looked admiringly at her, 
and said : 

“If any question arises at any time, just ask Mrs. 
Hamilton. She really is better informed than I 
am along these lines. . . . She lives here and 

I don't, so she is the one to be pleased.” 

He noticed that Richard Carey looked surprised 
but said nothing. Little did he dream, however, 
that Richard, in his matter-of-fact Yankee fashion, 
had put the worst possible construction upon his 
careless words, and that on this first morning, Rich- 
ard Carey’s tender heart had gone out in sympathy 
to the beautiful woman that he, Paul Hamilton, 
called wife. 


120 


PHOEBE 


For several days Richard saw very little of 
Phoebe, except at meal time, but he often heard her 
speaking in the other part of the house, and he 
invariably found himself stopping to listen. Her 
voice was very full and sweet, and he wondered if 
she sang. He wondered, too, if that little pathetic 
note at the end of her voice was because she knew 
about her husband’s unfaithfulness and was un- 
happy. 

These southern people interested him greatly, and 
as he worked he speculated a good deal about them. 

‘^The idea,” he thought, ‘‘of a man’s making a 
light boast of not living with his wife, and to a 
stranger, too!” 

He could not understand the conditions that 
existed in Paul Hamilton’s home, especially as his 
and Paul’s friend. Professor Erickson, had spoken 
highly of Paul. These changes in character evi- 
dently had come about since Paul lived in Boston, 
for, from all accounts, he was a clean fellow then 
and had good principles. 

Richard had always heard that there was a great 
deal of immorality in the south, and he supposed 
that the situation at Maplewood only went to prove 
it. 

He loved books and he found his work very 
pleasant, though he was a trifle lonely. There were 
a great many books, and he was making a general 
examination, first putting the books that were rare 
editions in one place, and those that needed to be 


PHOEBE 


I2I 


re-bound in another. With a good brush and a 
strong pot of glue he was carefully repairing any 
slightly worn ones, putting all the books that were 
in good condition in a class to themselves. When 
this was done he was to paste in book plates, with 
name and number and the general subject of which 
the book treated. Then he was to follow that by 
making a catalogue of the whole, with special refer- 
ence to subject matter and related groups. This 
was a work of no slight magnitude, and required 
patience and a thorough knowledge of books. 

At one end of the long bright library had been 
made alcoves, so as to give more room for the 
books: at the other end flat shelves were arranged 
against the walls. The room was furnished with 
a large reading-table and with comfortable chairs. 
In the niches above the alcoves were busts of 
Phoebe's and Paul's favorite authors, statesmen, 
musicians, sculptors, and painters. At the other 
end of the room, between the bookcases and over 
the windows, were pictures of several beautiful 
landscapes and water scenes. On the reading-table 
Phoebe said she intended to have only a good globe 
and a reading-lamp. 

While Richard worked, however, the reading- 
table wore a heavy felt cover, and he used it as a 
center of operations. He wished sometimes that 
Mrs. Hamilton would come in and talk to him as he 
worked, but she never did. 

The hoys made themselves very free when they 


122 


PHOEBE 


came home from school. Richard always felt as if 
he and his . books had been involved in a cyclone 
after one of their visits. Phoebe never let them stay 
very long, but called them after a few minutes and 
made them go out either to ride or to play. “They 
certainly are fine boys,” Richard thought, “but they 
are as full of curiosity and restless spirits as an 
egg is of meat.” 

Paul frequently failed to come to dinner and 
many times at night he came so late that Richard did 
not see him. Richard generally worked only a short 
time after tea, and then either walked into the city 
for exercise or went to his room. 

The boys had their school work to prepare in the 
evenings, but Richard did not know what Mrs. 
Hamilton did, and he often fancied that she might 
be dull. He often wished that she would talk to 
him. There were so many things he would like to 
know about, and then, too, it would be interesting 
to know how she looked at things. What a woman, 
he thought, to lead such a life. 

She never placed herself in his way, however, and 
he could not ask her to come and talk to him. She 
might think that he was impertinent, he thought. 

He had been told that southern people resented 
impertinence very quickly, and he did not wish to 
make her angry. She was always kind when they 
met, and she had in many quiet, unobtrusive ways 
shown thought for his comfort and convenience. 
He wondered where she went every morning carry- 


PHOEBE 


123 


ing a covered tray, and he soon commenced to stand 
where he could see the tall, handsome figure cross 
the yard, with the puppies. Snap and Ginger, frisk- 
ing about her skirts. Sometimes she came back in 
a few minutes, sometimes she stayed an hour or 
more. Whether her stay was short or long, though, 
he always managed to stand with his face to the 
window, and he never failed to see her as she passed 
back to the house. Somehow it made him feel 
less lonely to see her about. 

Once or twice he plucked up courage to go and 
ask her some trivial thing in regard to the books, 
and once she had stayed in the library chatting 
lightly with him afterward. 

“Paul says that the bust of Handel is to be the 
dead line, and that I am to keep myself and all my 
belongings on this side,” sEe said. 

“Why, if that be the case, you’ll have all the 
good things over here, will you not ?” 

He looked smilingly and curiously at her to see 
what she would say, but she looked down and did 
not answer except by a light, impersonal laugh. 


CHAPTER V 


Richard’s room at Maplewood was on the south 
side of the house and overlooked the beautiful old 
garden. This garden was beautiful at all times. 
Beautiful, when winter wove a blanket of snow 
for it, and the hedges and evergreens glistened in 
the cold white moonlight: beautiful in the spring, 
when the hedges and dark evergreens first showed 
buddings of tender green, when the pyrus japonica 
showed its bare branches full of deep pink buds, 
when the first blue-bird, that daring harbinger of 
spring, gave forth his melting notes from the top 
of the great magnolia: beautiful in summer, when 
the roses and lilies were in their glory : and beauti- 
ful in the autumn, when the old-fashioned October 
flowers and the purple and white asters lifted their 
sweet faces to the sun, when the hickories were like 
cloth-of-gold, and when the crepe-myrtle burst into 
flame. 

On one side of the garden was the flower-pit, 
through the glass panes in the top of which could be 
seen the rich crimson and delicate white geranium 
blossoms against a background of apple and rose 
and spice. The pit could be opened on sunny days 
even in winter for the tall hedges kept out the wind 
124 


PHOEBE 


125 


and the kiss of the sun was warm and sweet. The 
gray walks stretched in every direction, and were 
bordered with jonquils and daffodils, which in the 
spring hung their golden cups over the paths. A 
red-bird and his family had a nest in the lilac hedge 
and Richard had seen him several times looking 
like a crimson shooting-star and had heard him call- 
ing to his mate. 

In the little triangular beds in the corners of the 
garden were always found the first violets, and close 
by in an arbor overrun with starry jasmine were 
some seats and a table, where in warm weather 
Phoebe sometimes had tea served. 

There were roses in profusion scattering their 
wealth of crimson and pink and yellow and cream 
and white petals on the grass and waving their arms 
in gentle plaint to the tall hedges around them. 

On the first Thursday morning after his arrival at 
Maplewood Richard lay in bed lazily enjoying a 
delicious sense of physical well being and listening 
to the songs of the birds in the garden. A mocking- 
bird was pouring out its little heart from the great 
magnolia, while from the lilac hedge he could dis- 
tinguish the flute-like note of his friend the red- 
bird. The jay-birds and sparrows, too, were chat- 
tering as if they were determined to make up in 
quantity for what they lacked in quality of voice. 

Suddenly a new note sounded under his window. 
It was Phoebe’s voice, and she was saying: 

“We will put all red into your basket, Paul ; all 


126 


PHOEBE 


white into Clay’s, while I will take whatever is left 
in mine.” 

“Let me do the cutting,” cried one of the boys* 

“No, let me,” shouted the other. 

“Oh, you can't cut,” exclaimed the first. 

“Yes, I can,” declared the second. 

“You know you are the one that cut the stems 
too short last year.” 

“Yes, but you are the one that cut William’s 
onion tops and brought them in for bachelor 
buttons.” There was a chorus of laughter from all 
three at this. 

“Well, run and ask Hester to lend you the kitchen 
scissors and get the old pair out of my basket, and 
then we can all cut. Hurry, or we will not finish 
before breakfast.” 

Two wild Indian war-whoops and two pair of 
scampering feet told Richard that the boys, Paul 
and Clay, were providing themselves with scissors, 
and presently the babel of voices under his window 
told that the implements had been provided. 

“I’ll cut red!” shouted one. 

“I’ll cut white!” shouted the other. 

“I’ll cut what’s left!” shouted Phoebe, in exact 
imitation of the boys. 

Then a mighty snip-snip-snipping began. 

“Now, I wonder what they are doing,” thought 
Richard, and throwing off the light cover, he went 
to the window and looked out. 

The boys looked as fresh as daisies, and were 


PHOEBE 


127 


racing to see which would fill his basket first. Phoebe 
was gathering Duchess roses and her cheeks were 
flushed just the color of the delicate blossoms. 

The best word to describe Richard’s manner of 
getting into his clothes was scramble, as he wished 
to get down and help them with whatever they were 
doing. They seemed to be cutting every flower in 
the garden. When he got down-stairs, however, 
the baskets of roses were on the table in the back 
piazza and the boys were laboriously brushing the 
dew from Phoebe’s short skirt and heavy boots. 
She, with her hair a little tumbled and breathing a 
little quickly from the exercise, was laughing and 
telling Paul something as Richard came down. 

The boys had to hurry through breakfast, as it 
was time to go to school, the others had letters to 
read, and there was practically no conversation dur- 
ing the meal. 

After breakfast Richard saw Phoebe hurrrying 
across the yard with the tray, but she stayed only a 
few minutes, and when she came in she put on her 
gloves and immediately commenced to work with 
the flowers again. He had made up his mind to go 
and talk to her, and ask her what she was going to 
do with so many flowers. Then he heard her talk- 
ing to some one that she called Eloise. 

They sat down at the table, and worked and 
chatted, but he could hear only the sound of their 
voices, and could not make out anything that they 
said. After a while a nurse came with two little 


128 


PHOEBE 


fair-haired children that seemed to belong to the 
lady called Eloise, and Phoebe, quitting the roses, 
ran down the steps to the little cart and brought 
in the little fair-haired baby in her arms. 

One of the windows of the library opened directly 
on the back piazza, and Richard could hardly help 
seeing what was going on out there. Truth compels it 
to be added that he did not try. How beautiful Mrs. 
Hamilton was, he thought, and how like a madonna 
she looked with the little fair child in her arms. 
He had always been fond of children himself, and 
this little fellow with one chubby hand on Phoebe’s 
bare neck where her collar rolled back was very 
attractive. 

After a while, when all the flowers had been made 
into wreaths and crosses and great rainbow bou- 
quets and had been laid on big waiters and thor- 
oughly sprinkled, the ladies and children disap- 
peared and left Richard in peace. 

The boys came home from school earlier than 
usual and appeared at the dinner table in snow 
white suits and red ties. Phoebe, too, came down 
evidently dressed to go out. To Richard’s surprise 
even Paul was evidently not going back to the office 
that afternoon. 

After dinner Hester and William both came out 
and helped to stow the flowers in the big automobile. 

Suddenly Paul turned to Richard and said, “Why, 
Mr. Carey, would you care to go?” 


PHOEBE 


129 

“Where are you going?” answered Richard. “I 
do not understand.” 

“Why, of course,” cried Phoebe; “how stupid 
and inattentive you must think us ! I thought that 
of course you knew it was Memorial Day. I forgot 
that your day is different from ours.” Then, turn- 
ing kindly to him, she said, “We shall be glad to 
have you go with us, if you care to go.” 

“Thank you,” said Richard; “I should like it 
above all things.” 

In a short while they were speeding along in the 
automobile, Richard on the front seat with Paul 
and the two boys in the tonneau with Phoebe. She 
did not talk much to Richard and Paul, for her 
time was largely taken up in keeping the boys from 
crushing the flowers and from soiling their white 
suits. 

As they sped down the streets they saw coming 
out of almost every house women and children 
dressed in white with red ribbons and carrying 
great bunches of flowers. At every street corner 
there was a group of persons waiting to take the 
car. 

During a pause in Paul’s conversation Richard 
heard Phoebe say softly : “Yes, Paul darling, your 
father’s father was killed. My father was a soldier, 
too, but he was not killed in battle. He lived until 
after you and Clay were born.” 

This war then, Richard thought, had come very 
near to this family, and suddenly his heart was 


130 


PHOEBE 


filled with the pity of it all and he understood as 
he had never before done the pathos of the Lost 
Cause. 

When they reached Evergreen Cemetery it 
seemed as if all Melrose was there. Paul and 
Richard sat in the automobile until the procession 
was formed, but Phoebe and the boys got out. 
Phoebe and several other ladies distributed the 
flowers that she had brought among the children 
that had none. 

The boys, each carrying a great bunch of crimson 
roses, went forward to march and sing with the 
school children. The veterans came next, and then 
the Daughters of the Confederacy, and last, it 
seemed to Richard, all the men and women in Mel- 
rose. There were no flags, no band, no cannon, 
only this long line of marching men, women, and 
children. 

Just as they began to move all the church-bells in 
the city commenced to toll. 

Phoebe came back with Paul and Richard, and 
walked gravely along between them. When they 
had nearly reached the enclosure around the sol- 
diers’ graves they passed a tall white shaft. It bore 
a soldier’s name and the date of his death and was 
marked U. S. A. Richard felt a warm glow around 
his heart when he saw one of the twins step for- 
ward and place a wreath at its base. 

Phoebe said gently by way of explanation, “He 
was my father’s friend.” 


PHOEBE 


131 

When the procession halted a prayer was offered, 
then the sweet, fresh voices of the children sang a 
hymn, during the singing of which the men stood 
with bared heads and the flowers were laid on the 
graves. An old minister, a veteran of three wars, 
pronounced the benediction, a rosy cheeked boy 
bugler sounded “Taps,” and the ceremonies were 
over. 

Richard looked around at the great crowd of 
people slowly dispersing and his tender eyes grew 
misty. 

When the boys reached the automobile they 
wished to go for a ride, but Phoebe said, “Not to- 
day,” and they all went home. 

Paul was at home for the whole evening and he 
and Phoebe sat out on the piazza. The boys played 
duets in the drawing-room, and Richard, feeling 
very restless, went for a long walk in the country. 


CHAPTER VI 


On Sunday the Hamiltons invited Richard to go 
to church with them, but he, being a devout Catholic, 
begged to be excused. Paul then offered to him the 
use of Gary and the buggy, which offer he gladly 
accepted. He started out soon after breakfast, tak- 
ing his kodak and a box of lunch that Phoebe had 
fixed for him. 

He was very glad of an opportunity to drive 
through the country, and stayed out until after 
dinner, taking pictures and getting a number of 
interesting new floral specimens. He was devoted 
to flowers and was a botanist of some ability. Late 
in the afternoon he came back to Maplewood, and, 
not seeing William anywhere, drove the horse to 
the stable himself. As he was particularly fond of 
horses, he stopped to give the animal a gentle rub- 
down and some water and hay after the long drive. 
While he was thus engaged he heard a voice near-by, 
which he instantly recognized. The voice was read- 
ing aloud : 

^‘And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, 
clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of 
God and the Lamb. 


132 


PHOEBE 


133 


“In the midst of the street of it, and on either side 
of the river was there the tree of life, which bare 
twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every 
month : and the leaves of the tree were for the heal- 
ing of the nations.” 

The sweet, clear, full voice paused, and some- 
thing that he could not understand was said by an- 
other fretful, peevish voice. 

Then he stood spell-bound while a voice, as soft 
and as clear as a lute, but so perfectly modulated 
that it would not have been noticed across the yard, 
sang one sweet old hymn after the other just as a 
mother might sing to an ailing, fretful child. 

This then, Richard thought, was the person that 
she came every morning to see. Who could it be ? 
All kinds of surmises surged through his brain. His 
innate delicacy forbade his seeming too curious, but 
he felt as if he must find out. Stepping to the back 
of the stable whence the voices seemed to come he 
peeped through a high hedge of evergreens and saw 
beyond a beautiful and touching sight. 

In the midst of a little garden surrounded by tall 
green hedges was a two-room house covered with a 
luxuriant wistaria vine. There was no porch, but 
in front of the tiny house on the ground were placed 
several comfortable home-made oak chairs. In one 
of these sat an old negro woman, wrinkled and help- 
less ; and Richard instantly saw from the expression 
of her face that she was blind. 

Near-by, her Bible still open on her knee, sat 


134 


PHOEBE 


Phoebe. Her expression was sweet and tender, but 
Richard thought it a little weary. He felt ashamed 
of looking at her when she was entirely off guard, so 
he stopped noiselessly back and started to the house. 

In a few minutes Phoebe came in, looking gentle 
and serene. She was dressed in a plain white linen 
walking-dress, the simple lines of which were par- 
ticularly becoming to her tall, handsome figure. 

Paul, who, to Richard’s surprise, was at home, 
was showing the library to Dr. Carmichael. The boys 
and the dogs were not visible. As soon as Paul saw 
Richard coming in he came cordially forward and 
introduced him to Dr. Carmichael, saying: “This 
is the man that is doing the work, doctor, so I’ll let 
him tell you. I know more about textile industries 
than I do about books, as Phoebe here can testify.” 

As he spoke he turned affectionately to his wife, 
who at that moment came into the room. Phoebe 
came forward smiling and turned a smooth cheek 
for the old doctor to kiss. 

“Well, madam,” he said, “what have you been 
doing to yourself?” Then, turning to Paul, he 
added, “I believe she is prettier than when I first 
met her nearly twenty years ago.” 

Paul smiled and Phoebe laid her hand over his 
mouth. 

“You shall not laugh,” she said saucily, “when 
the doctor compliments me.” Then, turning to the 
doctor, she added, “He is so used to me that I think 
he forgets all about my looks.” 


PHOEBE 


135 


But Paul drew her lovingly to him. “No, I 
don’t,” he said; “you know well enough what I 
think.” And Phoebe looked serenely content. 

While this little byplay was going on Richard 
Carey looked questioningly from one to the other. 
There was something here that he did not under- 
stand. Was Paul Hamilton a double-faced villian? 
Or didn’t she care? Or — or what? He could not 
puzzle it out. His thoughts were interrupted by 
hearing the old doctor ask where the boys were. 
Phoebe told him that they had gone to take some 
roses to Eloise, who was not well. 

The doctor, as much at home in Paul’s house as he 
was in his own, announced his intention of staying to 
tea. 

“They are the finest boys in this city, Mr. Carey,” 
he said, turning to Richard, “and I am never satis- 
fied not to see them when I come. By the way,” 
turning to Phoebe, “I didn’t know Eloise was ill?” 

“Well, she isn’t exactly ill,” said Phoebe, “she is 
tired, that’s all. She had a party for little Eloise 
yesterday afternoon, and she overtaxed herself 
getting ready for it. She wanted it to be the finest 
that had ever been known in Melrose.” 

Phoebe laughed with indulgent amusement. 

“Faugh!” the doctor exclaimed, “these mothers 
— most of them, I mean” — making a little quick 
whimsical bow to Phoebe, “positively rile me f 
How old is that child, madam ? Eight ? 
I thought so. What can her mother expect of her 


136 


PHOEBE 


when she is grown? . . . The finest party 

ever known in Melrose, and the child is only eight ! 
Do you wonder our women, with few exceptions, 
are idle and vain and have feeble bodies and minds 
when their mothers start them out at eighth 

Dr. Carmichael pranced up and down the floor 
in indignant protest. 

‘‘Well,'' laughed Phoebe, “if you are going to 
discuss the follies of women. I'll go and draw the 
tea." She swept out of the room with great dignity, 
her head held high in the air. 


CHAPTER VII 


A little later Richard had occasion to go into the 
dining-room to get a glass of water. He could hear 
Phoebe moving about in the pantry, humming softly 
to herself. Just as he was turning to go out, she 
called, ‘Ts that you Paul? I wish you would 

‘Tt is I,” Mrs. Hamilton,” answered Richard, 
opening the door to the pantry as he spoke ; “is there 
anything that I can do for you ?” 

“Oh! is it you, Mr. Carey? I thought you were 
Paul. Well, if you don’t mind, I will ask yoU to 
reach that jar on the top shelf for me. Dr. Car- 
michael enjoys peach preserves very much, and I am 
getting too old to climb.” 

Richard lingered, watching her fair, capable 
hands as she skilfully opened the jar and then with a 
long-handled spoon spread the fruit on a dish. 

“I am wondering,” she said presently, “if you can 
carve. I can't, and I hate to call Paul. He dotes 
so on Dr. Carmichael and so seldom sees him. 
There is a cold fowl, but it will be simply mangled 
if I undertake to carve it. That is where Hester 
spoils me. I have never had to learn.” 

Richard signified his willingness to attempt the 
carving; in fact, he would readily have tried almost 
anything in order to prolong what was to him a 
137 


138 


PHOEBE 


most interesting bit of experience. This southern 
woman interested him strangely, and he wondered 
to himself in what her fascination lay. She cer- 
tainly was indifferent to him and to his opinion of 
her, however, and he half thought that this was 
what made her so attractive to him. He hadn’t been 
accustomed to having women treat him in this sweet, 
impersonal, indifferent way, and he caught himself 
wishing that he could make her look interested in 
him. 

The carving progressed after a fashion, and 
Phoebe gave a gay little laugh when she saw the 
result. 

^‘Anyway,” she said, '‘the future Mrs. Carey will 
thank me for helping with your education. Or per- 
haps,” she added, questioningly, "there is already 
one?” 

"No, not yet, but there is a fiancee, though.” 

"So there is a sweetheart ! Where does she live ? 
In Boston?” 

Phoebe, like all true women, adored a love-affair. 
She looked at the tall, gray-eyed young man beside 
her with suddenly increased interest. 

"When you go back to Boston tell her that I 
taught you to carve in preparation for her house- 
keeping.” 

They both laughed; and after that she treated 
him less vaguely and with more friendliness. 

She thanked him cordially for helping her, and 
said : 


PHOEBE 


139 


“Paul and Clay usually help me Sunday after- 
noons, but I suspect they stayed to play with Eloise. 
They think she is a wonder, and I like for them to 
be thrown with girls. It is good for a boy’s 
manners.” Then she added tenderly, “And theirs 
certainly need it.” 

“Where are the servants this afternoon?” Richard 
asked. 

“Oh!” laughed Phoebe, “you show that you are 
freshly imported. Why, they are off, of course. 
You should have seen them arrayed in all their 
glory, going out after dinner.” 

In a few minutes the boys and dogs came rushing 
in, striking the erstwhile quiet house like a whirl- 
wind; and Richard, finding himself no longer of 
use in the pantry, reluctantly got a book and sat 
down. 

He did not read, however. He kept going over in 
his mind the scenes of the afternoon and puzzling his 
brain about the relations that existed between Mr. 
Hamilton and Mrs. Hatnilton. However puzzling 
they were, he could not bring himself to think that 
Phoebe was anything but pure and good. 

As for Paul, Richard did not know what to think. 
The man certainly seemed to be a gentleman, and to 
love his wife. But he himself had told how matters 
stood between them, so there could be no doubt. 
It was sacrilege to think of such a thing though, 
and Richard did not see why the public allowed 
it. The lax southern idea, without a doubt, made 


140 


PHOEBE 


such a condition possible, he thought. He had 
a strong sense of duty; it was hard to sit idly by 
and see such an injustice done. In the excess of 
his indignant speculation, he got up and strode rest- 
lessly about the rooms. 

At the tea-table Phoebe, who was always at her 
best when she was conscious of being loved and ad- 
mired, was charming. Dr. Carmichael showed his 
delight in her by the most open and barefaced flat- 
tery, while Paul ran him a close second. Even 
Richard entered into the spirit of the fun and paid 
her one or two delicately veiled compliments. Each 
time he brought a faint glow of color to her cheeks. 
He could not help making the experiment, though 
he wondered why she received his gallant speeches 
differently from the way in which she received the 
others that had been made. Was it because he was 
a Yankee? He wondered. She seemed so sane and 
so broad-minded that this explanation hardly seemed 
possible. Still he could think of no other reason for 
her attitude toward him. 

He had no idea that he was recalling something in 
Phoebe’s nature that had lain absolutely dormant for 
eighteen years — ever since she had first cared for 
Paul. Since then no man had interested her beyond 
a passing pleasant greeting, and it gave her a little 
thrill of power to find that this good-looking 
stranger found her still worth pleasing. 

There was no evening service, and they sat in 
the drawing-room chatting for a while after tea. 


PHOEBE 


141 

Then the doctor had a telephone call from across 
town. While he wa,ited for his car, he led Phoebe 
in his old-fashioned, courteous manner to the piano 
and asked her to sing. Phoebe, always accommo- 
dating, complied at once and sat down, asking as 
she did so, “What shall it be ?” 

The doctor, settling himself with his head thrown 
well back, said, “Oh, I don’t know, child; just any- 
thing.” 

But the twins begged for “My Ain Countrie,” 
and Richard noticed that although they had been 
very restless, tussling with each other most of the 
evening, they now came into the room and were 
perfectly quiet. 

Phoebe sang again the quaint sweet old hymn, 
pouring out all the tenderness of her heart into the 
golden notes. When she finished, her little group 
of listeners sat perfectly still. 

Richard had heard her singing at Mammy Linda’s 
in the afternoon, but then she had so modulated 
her voice that it was more like a soothing lullaby. 
Now she let it out until it filled the great room, 
and the flood of exquisite melody almost overcame 
him. 

Richard gave a furtive glance at Paul to see how 
he was affected by his wife’s singing, and was sur- 
prised to see that his eyes were misty and tender. 
Again the puzzling question arose : 

What could be the matter between them? 


CHAPTER VIII 


The next morning it was raining and as Phoebe 
came across the yard from Mammy Linda’s she had 
her fresh morning-dress caught up and held in such 
a way as to show her shapely ankles and feet. She 
was entirely unconscious of any eye’s being upon 
her, and had no thought of how attractive and 
girlish she looked. 

Something, however, she knew not what, im- 
pelled her to look up at the library window and there 
she met the eager, curious eyes of Richard Carey in- 
tently fixed upon her. It was not the first time that 
she had seen him at the window, but it was the first 
time that a queer feeling stirred within her and she 
knew that he was watching her. 

She dropped her eyes quickly and passed into 
the house, but all that day her thoughts kept revert- 
ing to him. Why was he looking at her like that? 
Why was he looking at all? She kept asking her- 
self these questions. 

Paul did not come home to dinner that day, and 
the boys had a great game of baseball on hand for 
the afternoon; so, except at dinner, which was 
served at the hour that was customary in Melrose, 
three o’clock in the afternoon, Phoebe was entirely 
142 


PHOEBE 


143 


alone all day. She could hear Richard moving about 
in the library, and she had a faint impulse to go and 
talk to him — the first that she had ever had. But 
she decided to practice a while instead. Something 
vague and intangible impelled her to let him know 
that she was in the house. One song after another 
she sang and she put her whole soul into the work. 
Neither of them knew it, but she was singing to him. 
For the first time she was really thinking of Richard 
Carey! What could he have meant by looking at 
her like that? It was not a look of impertinence, 
though. She was sure of that. It was more as if 
he were looking because he really wished to see her. 
She had a little peculiar warm feeling when she 
thought of it, and she thought of it a great deal. 

In the library Richard was making no pretence 
of working with the books. He was sitting with his 
face in his hands listening intensely. How beautiful 
her voice was ! How strangely moved he was by it ! 
In all his life, music lover as he was, he could not 
recall any voice that had so touched him. It must 
be, he thought, because he knew the sad and tragic 
circumstances of her life. She seemed a woman 
just made for love and happiness, and he could not 
understand Paul Hamilton. 

That evening as she sat alone in the quiet, cool 
darkness of the piazza he ventured out, letting her 
infer that he had not known that she was there. 
Again she had that queer feeling as if something 


144 PHOEBE 

I 

stirred, and she knew absolutely that he came be- 
cause she was there. 

Phoebe, with just a little tingle of pleasure in her 
veins, laughed and chatted and made herself charm- 
ing as only Phoebe knew how to do — when she tried. 
Richard was entranced and even fancied that she, 
too, was enjoying the evening. Presently, however, 
they heard the honk! honk! of Paul’s automobile, 
and Phoebe, all forgetful of Richard, ran to meet 
Paul. 

Not knowing that Richard was on the piazza, Paul 
came out with his arm around her. He let it drop, 
however, when she said, “Here is Mr. Carey, Paul.” 

Richard rose, and shortly afterward went to his 
room. Paul and Phoebe sat quietly on the piazza 
until far into the night, and Richard upstairs at his 
open window could not understand them. 

He was restless that night and could not sleep. 
He got up and tried to write to Minerva Chippen- 
dale, but he finally laid the pen down. The words 
would not come. It would be absurd, he thought, 
for him to write that he was remarkably interested 
in a beautiful married woman, the mother of two 
fine boys, whose husband was unfaithful to her. 
That was absolutely all that he could think of to 
say except that she was very large and very beauti- 
ful with a regal kind of beauty that he had never 
seen anything like before, and that she had a voice 
of pure gold that touched even the heart of her 
villain of a husband. Manifestly he could not write 


PHOEBE 


145 


such nonsense as that, so he impatiently pushed the 
paper away and tried once more to puzzle out what 
was the trouble between Phoebe and her husband. 

They certainly seemed to care for each other, and 
if she knew of her husband’s unfaithfulness she gave 
no sign in his presence. A sudden thought came to 
Richard. Maybe that was her woman’s way to win 
him back. If it were, though, it was not succeeding, 
for it seemed to Richard that Paul stayed away al- 
most all the time. 

The next morning it was still raining, and when 
Phoebe as usual started across the yard with the tray 
and an umbrella, she was surprised to hear Richard 
Carey’s voice near her, saying: 

“Won’t you let me assist you?” 

She smiled at him in a bright, friendly, impersonal 
way and said: 

“If you will be so kind. It is rather difficult to 
hold the umbrella and carry the tray at the same 
time, and a woman’s skirts always have to be 
reckoned with.” 

They fell into an even pace and crossed the yard 
quickly. Phoebe was conscious of a little quicken- 
ing of the pulses and a slight feeling of exhilaration. 
She could not have told why. Perhaps, she thought, 
it was because she felt a little awkward at walking 
under the same umbrella with this stranger. 

He asked a great many questions about Mammy 
Linda as they walked along and seemed to listen 
rather curiously for Phoebe’s answers. 


146 


PHOEBE 


‘'Why, she has taken care of three generations of 
us,'' Phoebe said. “She nursed my mother, she 
nursed me, and she nursed Paul and Clay, so you 
see she is just like a member of the family." 

Richard looked surprised. “Why, I didn't know 
that any of you southern people thought of the 
negroes as equals?" 

Phoebe gave a little gasp of horror. “Who ever 
heard of such a thing!” she cried. “Of course we 
don't I I love Mammy better than I do almost any- 
body I know except Paul and the boys, but I don’t 
think of her as an equal. She is just Mammy!” 

They both laughed merrily at her logic and then 
Richard asked if she were going to sing again that 
morning. Phoebe looked surprised, and then he 
acknowledged that he had heard her the Sunday 
afternoon before. She colored and looked grave, 
and he saw that he had said the wrong thing. 

She would not let him come any farther than 
the door with her. Thanking him sedately she took 
the tray and went in, closing the door softly behind 
her. He walked back through the rain, thinking 
over the inconsistencies that he was finding in these 
people. When Phoebe came in an hour later he 
still had made no headway with his work, but rushed 
out to ask her some trivial questions that would 
make her stop and talk to him. 

To his surprise she seemed quite willing to talk, 
and she even sat idly in the library for a few min- 


PHOEBE 


147 

utes. When she left the little contact with her gave 
a spice to the rest of the day. 

All that day and for several days afterward 
Richard saw nothing of Phoebe except at mealtime, 
when sometimes Paul and always the twins were 
present. 

Paul was often not there except for breakfast, 
when he usually read the paper as he ate his egg and 
drank his coffee. He usually took dinner down in 
the city as he was very busy and the weather was 
warm. Often he did not get in until after tea, and 
frequently he had to go out again. He was working 
too hard and was looking ill. Phoebe was up in 
arms about it. 

“I don’t see, Paul,” she said indignantly, ‘‘why 
you have to do the whole thing?” 

“Well, I do not,” he replied; “the other officers 
work just as hard as I do. Only I practically have 
two offices, and that makes me have to do double 
work, which is no easy matter in a big concern 
like ours. I am still young, though, and I can stand 
it for a while. I must get things where I want 
them, and then I’ll retire.” 

Phoebe smiled half-heartedly and let the matter 
drop. She had heard the same story so many times ! 


CHAPTER IX 


One lovely morning Phoebe announced at the 
breakfast table that she was going that day to see 
Miss Phyllis. The boys immediately shouted, “Wait 
until Saturday, mother, so that we can go with you.” 

Phoebe laughed. “Maybe that is why I have 
selected a day that isn’t Saturday,” she said. “Poor 
Miss Phyllis might not care to have quite so many 
of us come in without warning.” 

“How do you go?” asked Paul. 

“I thought I would drive out in the buggy while 
it is still cool,” Phoebe answered. 

“I think you had better go in the automobile. I’ll 
make William take me down to the office, and come 
back for you. I don’t like the idea of your driving 
so far alone. One reads of such terrible things 
happening.” 

It was settled that Phoebe should go in the auto- 
mobile, and Paul and the boys hurried away. 
Richard went into the library to work, and Phoebe 
busied herself making preparations for the visit. 

Finally everything was ready and she came down- 
stairs. Her hat was securely tied on with a delicate 
blue veil. The soft blue was very kind to the gentle 
148 


PHOEBE 


149 


dark eyes and clear pink cheeks, and she looked very 
lovely as Richard saw her through the window. 

He heard a cry of disappointment from her. The 
automobile had come back 

‘‘But, William,” Richard heard Phoebe say, “is 
Eliza very sick? Couldn’t you wait until the after- 
noon to go to see her. My basket is all fixed and 
ffie roses are gathered. Besides I have planned to 
go and you know how I hate to be disappointed.” 

“Yes, ma’am. Miss Phoebe, I understan’, an’ 
I hates to disappint you; but de boy say ’Liza is 
powerful bad off, an’ I’se all she got.” William’s 
sister was sick and she had sent for him. 

“Well, if you must, you must, I suppose. I’ll 
just have to give it up. I did not know that I 
wished to go so much until I find that I can’t,” and 
Phoebe looked the picture of despair. 

“I can drive, Mrs. Hamilton, and will be de- 
lighted to take you where you wish to go, if you will 
trust yourself to me?” 

Phoebe turned with a little start. Richard was at 
her elbow. 

“You, Mr. Carey! wouldn’t you mind? I do so 
hate to put off things when I have planned.” 

‘T should be delighted to serve you,” said 
Richard, “and I shall enjoy the ride.” 

“I think you do deserve a holiday,” laughed 
Phoebe, “if driving me to see Miss Phyllis is one. 
I’ll hear your opinion of that as we come back.” 

In a few minutes they were in the big automobile 


PHOEBE 


150 

speeding down the country road, Phoebe sitting in 
the tonneau with her little basket covered with a 
fresh napkin and holding her big bunch of roses so 
as to protect them from the wind. Richard sat very 
straight on the front seat seemingly giving all his 
attention to driving the big car. Phoebe’s hand had 
touched his as he helped her into the car and he was 
mentally trying to account for the feeling of ela- 
tion that the touch had given him. It was the first 
time that he had touched her since the morning of 
his arrival in Melrose, when she had shaken hands 
with him. The difference in the effect on him was 
certainly marked. 

During the ride there was very little conversa- 
tion. Richard’s thoughts kept him entertained 
when he was not busy with the automobile, and 
Phoebe was in a quiet mood. The road was good, 
the sky was blue, the birds were singing and call- 
ing to one another and the air was warm and sweet 
as it fanned their cheeks as they fairly flew along. 

Richard, for some inexplicable reason, felt 
strangely light-hearted and happy. 

“Do use your eyes, Mr. Carey, while we are 
there,” Phoebe said ; “I want you specially to notice 
the pictures.” 

“Why?” asked Richard; “are they fine?” 

“No,” answered Phoebe, “not fine, but interest- 
ing. I will not tell you anything about Miss Phyllis, 
but I think you will find her interesting. I think 
she is charming, and Paul and the boys adore her.” 


PHOEBE 


151 

“Who is she if I may ask that much?” inquired 
Richard. 

“She is an old friend of my mother’s, and she 
lives out here in the country entirely alone. This 
is the entrance to her domain,” said Phoebe, 
as the road made a sudden turn through the woods 
and came out on an open space with fences and fields 
on either side. 

They opened the gate and went in. On one side 
of the road leading up to the house was a cotton- 
field, in a very poor state of cultivation ; on the other 
side was a dilapidated split-rail fence, in the corners 
of which grew thick masses of oak, dogwood, and 
sumac bushes, tied together by a countless variety 
of wild vines. 

The house itself was a small one-storied affair 
with disproportionately tall red chimneys, and with 
tiny windows that had countless panes. 

There was no fence, and in the yard a brood of 
half-fledged chickens was chasing bugs. On each 
side of the steps there was a tall round clump of 
mock orange. In a far corner of the yard, near 
the well that had an old-fashioned sweep and a 
bucket, stood a big cape jasmine, covered with snowy 
wax-like flowers that perfumed the whole place with 
their heavy fragrance. 

The sound of the automobile brought Miss Phyllis 
to the door before Phoebe got out. Richard wished 
to remain in the car, but Phoebe would not hear of 
it. 


152 


PHOEBE 


“Why, Miss Phyllis would be insulted,” she said; 
“the etiquette in the country demands that you go 
in.” He got out and they walked up to the house 
together. 

Miss Phyllis, a tall, stooping person, was dressed 
in a gray calico wrapper of ancient pattern. Her 
feet were shod in loose, shapeless cloth shoes. Her 
hands were slender and bony, and had the broad flat 
finger tips that denote power and skill. 

But Richard’s eyes sought her face and rested there. 
Such a wonderful face it was! The hair that sur- 
rounded it was iron-gray. It grew in heavy waves 
on her brow and her neck, and was caught together 
in a great careless, loose knot on the top of her head. 
Her brow was low and broad and the heavy black 
eyebrows almost met in a deep line above her long 
straight nose. Her mouth was large and grave, and 
the lips were bloodless. Indeed, over her whole face 
was the waxen pallor that usually comes to those 
that are poorly nourished and that live much in- 
doors. Her eyes were large and full and gray, with 
heavy curling lashes, and looked out on the world 
with the trustfulness of a very young child. 

She came forward as Phoebe and Richard neared 
the steps, a pleased brightness shining from the 
depths of her beautiful eyes. 

“I am so glad to see you,” she said to Phoebe, in 
a deep, soft, slurring voice, and reaching up to kiss 
her visitor’s smooth, fair cheek. 

“This is Mr. Carey, Miss Phyllis,” Phoebe said, 


PHOEBE 


153 

turning to Richard; '‘he was kind enough to bring 
me out in the car.” 

“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Carey,” she 
said. 

Then taking them each by the hand she led them 
into the house. The little room that they entered 
was pathetic in its bareness and poverty, yet it pro- 
claimed in unmistakable accents that it was the home 
of a lady. The window frames and the mantel were 
painted white; the wall spaces were painted gray. 
Phoebe afterward told Richard that Miss Phyllis 
had painted them. 

The only articles of furniture were several cane- 
bottomed chairs, a three-legged table, and an old- 
fashioned square piano — evidently a relic of better 
days. The fire-place was painted white and was 
filled with fresh green pine boughs. On the mantel 
were two white china vases, in which Phoebe 
quickly arranged her roses, their glowing beauty 
giving a touch of brightness to the poor plain room. 

Under glass cases on the mantel, table, and piano, 
stood bunches of variegated wax flowers, while on 
the walls hung many gay hand-painted pictures — 
seemingly the work of a talented, though poorly 
taught, child. 

Miss Phyllis led them to seats near the window. 
They saw spread out the work upon which she had 
been engaged when the sound of their automobile 
had attracted her attention. On the window-sill, 
on the table, and on one or two chairs, were the 


154 


PHOEBE 


materials from which she was busily making more 
wax flowers. 

‘‘Do not let us interrupt you,” said Phoebe, while 
Richard wondered what she was going to do with 
more flowers. 

“Well, if you don’t mind, I will go on,” she 
said, “as I can work and talk at the same time, and 
I am so interested in getting this cluster of trumpet- 
flowers before they wilt.” 

Then they saw that with painstaking care and no 
mean ability she was copying in wax a cluster of 
glowing trumpet-flowers. 

“Where do you get your wax?” Richard asked, 
with characteristic curiosity, after having watched 
the slender fingers for some minutes in silence while 
the ladies chatted. 

“Oh, I get it from the bees, and I bleach and dye 
it to suit myself. Then I copy all the fruit and 
flowers I can lay my hands on, and often when I 
set a bunch of flowers by this window it fools the 
humming-birds and the bees!” She laughed with 
the pleasure of a child. 

“Where did you take lessons?” he again asked. 

“I never took any lessons,” she replied. “I never 
even saw any one do this kind of work in my life, 
but somehow it seems to come natural to me.” 

Phoebe saw him looking around the walls at the 
pictures. He caught her eye and they smiled at 
each other with a smile of understanding. Phoebe 
dropped her eyes and Richard suddenly grew grave. 


PHOEBE 


155 

“Tell Mr. Carey about the painting, Miss 
Phyllis,” urged Phoebe, after a while. 

“Well, I don’t know that there is much to tell,” 
she answered, “except that I love to do it. I took 
it up after my mother died, Mr. Carey. It gave 
me something to think about. I really never had 
any lessons, and I never saw a real paint-brush nor 
a piece of canvas in my life. I order the tubes of 
paint, but I make every thing else that I use, and I 
copy all the pretty picture cards that I see. Just 
now I am out of canvas, so I have no painting on 
hand.” 

“You don’t mean to say that you make your own 
canvas too ?” he asked in amazement. 

She laughed with girlish pleasure, and then an- 
swered: “Well, you see, it isn’t truly canvas. It 
is just coarse cotton cloth treated chemically, so as 
to make it tight and smooth. I found a formula in 
an old chemistry, and it serves perfectly.” 

“Just then an old clock behind the door struck 
eleven, and she rose hastily, saying, “Here I have 
been talking about my own affairs, while you both 
must be famishing.” 

Phoebe started to demur, but a look of such child- 
ish disappointment came into Miss Phyllis’ beautiful 
eyes that she readily consented to stay to lunch. 

“It is nearly a year since anybody took a meal 
with me, and it is so lonely to eat by myself, that 
often I don’t have anything,” Miss Phyllis said. 


PHOEBE 


156 


“Then let us help you,” cried Phoebe. “Pll set 
the table and Mr. Carey can do the carving.” 

She looked at him roguishly as she spoke, and he 
suddenly felt very happy. 

“No,” said Miss Phyllis, “I don’t need any help. 
Phoebe, you take Mr. Carey out and show him the 
grove and my bees. I will call you when I am 
ready.” 

They walked down to the beehives together. 
Phoebe called back to tell Miss Phyllis that there 
were some things in the basket that might help her 
out with the lunch. Then they stood together in the 
grove, and strolled about under the great trees, lis- 
tening to all the wonderful music of the woods. 

There were many questions on the tip of Richard’s 
tongue, but he forbore to ask them. Phoebe was 
quiet and gentle, and he was full of a delicious con- 
tent. He felt that he would be satisfied to stay 
forever in the quiet woods. He really had not 
known before how much he loved the country. In 
what seemed to him an incredibly short time they 
heard Miss Phyllis calling, and Phoebe turned to 
go in. 

Miss Phyllis had arranged a little table under 
the window with places laid for three. There was 
a snowy cloth, and the center of the table was 
graced by her choicest bunch of wax flowers. The 
menu was a dish of golden honey, a plate of hot 
corn biscuit, and one new-laid egg for each person. 


PHOEBE 


157 

A pot of tea steamed fragrantly; in each plate was 
a nest of juicy red plums. * 

Notwithstanding the fact that Miss Phyllis’ guests 
were not accustomed to wax flowers as centerpieces, 
they enjoyed the meal as only city persons can enjoy 
the simplest country fare. Miss Phyllis was a graci- 
ous and attentive hostess, solicitous always, but she 
never once apologized for not being able to give to 
them a more lavish lunch. 

She skilfully led them to speak of their own 
plans ; then, becoming less personal, she entered into 
a spirited discussion of politics and of the latest 
topics of general interest. Richard looked surprised, 
but said nothing. 

Shortly after the meal, Phoebe rose, saying that 
they were expected back in Melrose. Miss Phyllis 
excused herself from the room, and presently re- 
turned with two beautiful pieces of silk tatting. 
One piece she gave to Phoebe, who thanked her 
warmly; then, turning to Richard, she gave to him 
the other, saying it was for his sweetheart — a 
souvenir of the south for him to take back to her. 

Poor Richard blushed guiltily. It was the first 
time that day that Minerva Chippendale had crossed 
his mind ! 

Phoebe volunteered to sit by him on the home- 
ward ride; and, when he helped her in, again that 
delicious thrill of elation passed through him. They 
turned to wave a last good-bye to Miss Phyllis when 


158 


PHOEBE 


they reached the big gate, but she did not see them. 
Through the open window they could see her soft 
old face, earnest and absorbed as she lovingly put 
the finishing touches to a huge bunch of scarlet 
trumpet-flowers. 

Richard drove slowly homeward, and Phoebe told 
him part of Miss Phyllis’ history. She had been 
engaged to be married to a young soldier, who had 
been killed in the war. No one had ever been able 
to get her to come to Melrose on a visit, though she 
had been invited frequently. She had never been 
there since ihe day she saw her lover march away 
to the war, over forty years ago. Now, she never 
went any farther from her home than to the little 
church, with the God’s acre attached, that they had 
passed. Every one of her family was buried there. 

“And the lover, where was he buried?” asked 
Richard, feeling strangely sorry for this young 
Confederate soldier that had been so near to happi- 
ness. 

“In the trenches at Gettysburg,” Phoebe answered 
softly. “They sent his Bible and a lock of her 
own hair to her. That is all she has to help her to 
remember.” 

“She must have felt it an impertinence for me to 
come there,” cried Richard, “but I did not know.” 

“No, no,” said Phoebe gently; “she is very broad, 
and I am sure she enjoyed meeting you. She reads 
so much that she could not remain narrow, if she 
tried.” 


PHOEBE 


159 


Just then they saw the tall chimneys of Maple- 
wood looming up, and they reached home in good 
time for William to take the car down for Paul. 
As Richard helped Phoebe out, she thanked him 
lightly for having given up his morning to her 
pleasure. 

He replied gently: “Do not thank me. I have 
thoroughly enjoyed my holiday.” 


CHAPTER X 


After the visit to Miss Phyllis Phoebe was much 
more friendly in her manner toward Richard, and 
he fell into the habit of behaving very much as if he 
were at home. The weather grew steadily warmer 
and warmer, and Paul came home to dinner less and 
less often. One day about the first of June Richard 
noticed that the boys left the dining-room after 
dinner each with an arm around Phoebe’s waist. 

“The rascals are begging for something,” he 
thought. But he could form no idea as to what it 
was. 

The library was warm during the first hours of 
the afternoon, when the sun was upon it. Richard 
had fallen into the habit of taking a book into the 
garden after dinner and of sitting there until the 
shadows began to lenghten. In the afternoon 
Phoebe always disappeared with a fan and a book. 
She came down later, looking cool and fresh, and 
usually wearing white. The boys generally played 
ball or went to ride. 

On this particular afternoon Richard took his 
book and went out in search of a cool spot. He 
walked restlessly about the garden for a short time, 

i6o 


PHOEBE 


i6i 


but it was blazing hot. He cast about for a cooler 
place. In a far corner, at the back of the garden, 
there was a clump of big trees. He decided to go 
there and sit in the dense shade. To his great 
pleasure he found an ingeniously contrived home- 
made hammock, furnished with a cushion or two. 
It was stretched in a secluded corner. 

“Ah!’' thought he, “this is just made for 
Richard.” 

He stretched himself comfortably in it. Almost 
instantly he fell asleep, for he had been sleeping 
badly of late. The warm weather made him rest- 
less, he thought. Suddenly he was startled by hear- 
ing voices very near him, saying: 

“Mother! There is Mr. Carey.” 

“Hush, Clay ! He is asleep. He will not see us !” 

“Anyway, Paul, it doesn’t matter. We have on 
our bathing-suits.” 

“S-s-s-h, boys, don’t wake Mr. Carey,” said 
Phoebe. 

This was too much for Richard; he just must see 
what was going on, so he opened his eyes. But he 
could not see. 

“Pshaw !” he thought. He tried to turn his head 
carefully, but one of the pillows fell out. Phoebe 
and the boys were busy, however, and did not notice 
him. 

Just on the other side of a tall hedge of oleanders, 
which were full of pink and white buds, he could see 
an oblong pool of clear, shining water. He won- 


PHOEBE 


162 

dered that he had not noticed it before; then he 
remembered that he had noticed a sound as of run- 
ning water before he went to sleep, but had paid no 
particular attention to it. He had never been in 
this part of the garden until this afternoon. 

The pool was irregular in shape, and the edges 
had been carefully built up with rock, from the 
crevices of which grew grasses and ferns and vari- 
ous little water-plants. At one end there was a mat 
of broad green leaves, and on top of it, gently stirred 
by the water as it flowed, rocked hundreds of snowy 
water-lilies. At the other end the white sand of 
the bottom could be seen through the clear, amber 
water. There was no visible outlet, but there was a 
low murmur of runnin[ water as though through 
some underground passage. 

What interested Richard most, however, was the 
little comedy being enacted there. Under one of 
the great elms that overhung the pool, on a rustic 
seat, sat Phoebe, her hair tumbled, the collar to 
her morning-dress tucked in, her face beaming with 
pleasure. In the pool, in bright striped cotton bath- 
ing-suits, were the two boys, with their beautiful 
young limbs bare. On opposite banks were Hester 
and William, grinning with affectionate delight. 
Running round and round, as if they did not know 
what to make of the situation, were the two puppies. 

Then commenced a battle royal, when each boy 
contended for the possession of the pool. Such 
splashing and spluttering! Such shrieking of boys 


PHOEBE 163 

and barking of puppies ! William laughed until he 
lay down and rolled over on the ground. 

They had forgotten all about Richard Carey, and 
he looked as much as he wished. Presently Phoebe, 
who seemed to be master of ceremonies, called time 
on the contestants, and told them that they must 
try to swim for a little while. So, amidst much 
sputtering and struggling and calling of directions 
by Phoebe and Hester and William, to which Rich- 
ard could scarcely refrain from adding his voice, 
for he had been a champion swimmer at Yale, the 
boys managed to struggle across the pool once 
or twice. 

Then the puppies were brought to be washed, 
much against their willf. for as fast as William 
threw them in on one side they swam frantically out 
on the other only to be captured and sent back by 
Hester. By this time the boys were laughing so that 
they we;re too weak to do anything but hold on to 
each other and fall about in the water. At this 
stage of the proceedings everything in the vicinity 
had had a shower bath, and even Richard, from his 
place of vantage behind the hedge, had been well 
sprinkled. William’s shirt was wet, Hester’s dress 
was wet, the puppies were wet, and even the little 
curls around Phoebe’s face were glistening with 
drops of water. 

Richard forgot all about caution, and sat up. 
Immediately there was a yell of delight from the 


164 


PHOEBE 


boys, who sent a rain of water in his direction. As 
he did not wish to be soaked he ran to the house. 

Later in the afternoon as he worked his mind 
kept reverting to the pretty incident of the after- 
noon, and he kept thinking of Mrs. Hamilton’s 
sweet appearance when her face lighted up and her 
habitual gravity was dispelled. 

At the tea-table there was much gay discussion 
of the contest of the afternoon, and Richard de- 
lighted the boys by offering to coach them in swim- 
ming, if they cared to have him do so, and by tell- 
ing them that he had belonged to the club at Yale. 
They were so boisterous in their manifestations of 
delight that Phoebe had to reprimand them, and 
had to remind them more than once that they were 
at the table. 

Paul, looking very tired and worn, came in while 
they were at tea, but the boys’ account of the after- 
noon and Phoebe’s merry talk soon brightened him 
up. 

Richard asked how such a pool happened to be on 
the place. Paul told him that, when Maplewood 
was a great plantation long before the war, at the 
place where the pool then was there had been two 
big springs, fed from underground. In those days 
one had been used as a watering-place for the stock : 
the other had been a wash-hole, where the slaves 
washed themselves and their clothes. 

“Last year,” Paul continued, “when we came to 
Maplewood, I had the two holes dug into one, and 


PHOEBE 


165 

the bottom cleaned out and filled with white sand — 
for the boys. I wished to clear out the whole thing, 
but Phoebe begged so hard for the water-lilies that 
I had to leave them.” 

He looked smilingly and affectionately at Phoebe 
as he spoke. The look and the tone had the effect 
of irritating Richard. He could not have told why, 
except that he could have no respect for a man that 
lived as he knew that Paul was living. However, 
he had stopped puzzling his brain over Paul and 
Phoebe’s relations, and he was really beginning to 
enjoy the southern life very much. 

Neither Phoebe nor Richard knew how it had 
begun, but it had become the accepted thing for him 
to carry the tray for her each morning as she went 
to Mammy Linda’s. He had teasingly asked her, 
more than once, to introduce him to this member 
of her family that was yet, not her equal. But 
she would never let him go with her into Mammy 
Linda’s house. One morning, however. Mammy 
Linda heard his voice outside, and insisted that he 
should come in. Paul and Clay had told her that 
he was teaching them to swim. 

Phoebe invited him in rather reluctantly Richard 
thought; but this southern life was so new and 
strange that he was curious to try everything that 
was a part of it, and he went in. The little room 
had every comfort, though its furnishings were of 
the simplest kind. 

The old woman herself was spotlessly clean and 


PHOEBE 


1 66 

neat. She drew Phoebe down quite near her sight- 
less eyes, and passed her hands tenderly over the 
head, the face, and the hands, then over the whole 
tall figure of the lovely woman that stooped over 
her. 

“How Mammy chile, to-day?” she murmured; 
“she well?” 

When this trying ordeal was over, Phoebe turned 
to Richard and, with a mischievous smile, said, 
“Your turn now !” Then turning to Mammy Linda, 
she said, “Mammy, this is Mr. Carey. You asked 
him to come in, you know.” 

Then Richard had to stand the ordeal of being 
handled, and he did not like it, as Phoebe could tell 
from his face. He almost wished he had not been so 
anxious to go in. 

While this little scene was being enacted Phoebe 
deftly arranged the tray, so that she could help the 
old woman with her breakfast. Then Richard saw 
a touching and beautiful sight. The tall, noble- 
looking gentlewoman patiently and gently helped 
the old blind servant to her breakfast, and talked 
pleasantly and kindly to her the while. 

When Mammy had finished, Phoebe rose to go, 
but the old woman caught her by her dress and 
whined, “Ent you gwine sing for Mammy, chile?” 

Phoebe looked embarrassed, and said, “Not to- 
day, Mammy; I haven’t time.” 

The old woman began to whimper, and Phoebe 
had to sing to soothe her. Softly and sweetly she 


PHOEBE 


167 


sang one of the oldest and simplest hymns, and when 
she had finished Mammy Linda slept like a tired 
child. 

Rising softly, Phoebe covered the tray, then, mo- 
tioning to Richard to follow her, she slipped out. 

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked 
reverently. 

“I hardly know. Let me see,” answered Phoebe 
reflectively; “Mammy got too blind to go round by 
herself when the boys were eight, and she has been 
helpless for about three years.” 

She changed the subject quickly, and talked no 
more about Mammy Linda. Richard felt that some 
of his preconceived ideas needed readjusting. 


CHAPTER XI 


Richard had been working at the books for over 
a month, and was getting on very well considering 
the fact that he had to pin his attention to the task. 
Paul had set no time in which the work must be 
completed ; but Richard had another engagement for 
August, and he felt that he must finish this work 
as soon as possible. 

For some reason he could not settle down and 
put his heart into his work. A restlessness such as 
he had never before known possessed him. He 
that had been accustomed to sleep soundly found 
himself wakeful and restless and often oppressed 
with a feeling of despairing loneliness. In daylight 
his nerves seemed to be strained to the highest pitch. 
He found himself listening feverishly to every 
sound in the quiet house. 

He thought constantly of Phoebe, and when he 
could not hear her nor see her he found himself 
wondering intently what she was doing or where 
she was. When she went into the drawing-room to 
sing, he no longer made any pretence of working, 
but he, too, went in, and sat quietly near her until 
she had finished. 

The only work that he did that was satisfactory to 

i68 


PHOEBE 


169 

himself, was when Phoebe came, as she frequently 
did, and offered to help him. She was so sweet and 
gentle, and so thoroughly capable that he enjoyed 
working with her ; and her being with him gave him 
a feeling of rest and companionship such as he had 
never before known. 

One day she came in and found him packing the 
books that needed to be re-bound. It was hot, dusty 
work, and all the morning he had been restless and 
longing for something, he knew not what. When 
she came in wearing a cool thin muslin dress of 
some nondescript color and bringing a frosted 
pitcher of iced milk, he could have blessed her. He 
was so pleased that again Phoebe had the queer 
feeling that told her that he admired her. This 
thought gave her a sense of exhilaration such as 
she had not known in many a year. It was pleasant 
to have this good-looking, intelligent man think well 
of her, and she enjoyed his admiration. In some 
way their conversation turned to Boston. 

“By the way,” she said, “you have never told me 
about your fiancee. Is she pretty? Clever? or 
both?” 

“Oh, she is pretty enough, and clever enough, too, 
I dare say,” he answered indifferently. 

“Well !” laughed Phoebe, “you don’t sound very 
enthusiastic. I am glad that she doesn’t hear you.” 

Richard smiled. “I guess I am enthusiastic 
enough. I never was an ardent lover. But she 
doesn’t expect it. She isn’t that kind,” he answered. 


170 


PHOEBE 


“I don’t see how in the world you ever got her to 
say she would marry you, if you talked to her like 
that,” remonstrated Phoebe. '^All women love to 
be loved! They are not natural otherwise.” 

‘‘Anyway, I am not gifted when it comes to talk- 
ing love. I’d a great deal rather go somewhere or 
read a good book.” 

Phoebe looked at him an instant as if weighing 
something, then she rose to go. 

“I am afraid that you don’t know very much 
about love,” she said. 

After she left, Richard, kept wondering what she 
had meant by that remark. Did she care so much 
herself that she thought everybody else had to feel 
the same way? It irritated him to think that she 
made no secret about knowing what love was. 

During the next few days some subtle change 
took place in Phoebe. She was a new and radiant 
creature. Instead of being dignified and sedate 
she was girlish and merry. She dressed her hair 
in a more youthful style. She took pains with her 
figure. She wore her most becoming gowns. She 
moved lightly and often sang as she went about the 
house. She smiled when alone as one having pleas- 
ant thoughts. Even the boys noticed the difference 
in her, and one day, in Richard’s presence. Clay 
threw his arms impetuously around her and kissed 
her on the lips. 

“Oh, mother!” he said; “you are so beautiful. 
I love you.” 


PHOEBE 


171 

Phoebe glanced quickly at Richard, and was sur- 
prised to see him looking at Clay as if he had de- 
tected the child in an impertinence. Richard turned 
quickly and left the room without saying a word. 
Shortly afterward Phoebe saw him walking briskly 
toward the country, though it was still early and 
the afternoon was very warm. 

Late that afternoon Paul came to take Phoebe and 
the boys for a ride in the automobile. It was such 
an unusual treat that Phoebe beamed with pleasure. 
She did not care specially for automobiling in itself, 
and when she had to go aione she never used the 
car except for convenience. She had always loved 
a good horse, either to ride or to drive ; and during 
all the years that they had lived at the little house 
Paul had felt they could not afford to keep a 
horse. Phoebe had not driven until after Miss Mc- 
Clintock’s death, and even yet she had not ridden 
horseback. 

It was quite a different matter, though, to go auto- 
mobiling with Paul, when he himself drove the 
automobile. He was an excellent driver, and with 
him Phoebe always had a delightful feeling of 
exhilaration in speeding along over the country 
roads, past club-houses, farm-houses, fields, lanes, 
river, until out, far, far out, they came to the woods. 
She always asked him to go slowly then, so that 
she could smell the pines, she said. 

Paul always smiled indulgently at her at such 


172 


PHOEBE 


times, and always rallied her on having been reared 
in the country. 

This afternoon, as they were nearing the city 
they recognized a tall, lean figure ahead of them by 
the roadside. It was Richard. He walked slowly 
as if weary. Paul halted the car near-by and asked 
him if he would ride home. He came forward a 
little unwillingly, Phoebe thought. When he saw 
that she was in the tonneau by herself the shadow 
lifted from his eyes and he climbed in pleasantly 
enough. 


CHAPTER XII 


Phoebe was enjoying herself immensely. All 
her girlish coquetry came back. She delighted Paul, 
she charmed the boys, she entranced Richard. For 
the first time in many years she was living again 
in an atmosphere of admiration and love. 

All her life she had been what might be called a 
man’s woman. Men had turned as naturally to her 
as the needle to the pole. Her father had idolized 
her and made a companion of her as far back as she 
could remember. Her brothers had worshiped her, 
and in their scheme of the universe nothing was 
complete without her. As she grew older all 
men admired her, and many had loved her de- 
votedly. She could not remember the time when she 
found out that she coul turn them as she willed ; and 
to her praise be it said she had never used her beauty 
nor her influence except in a way that was high and 
ennobling. 

Paul was a man of the highest integrity, one that 
would have died at the stake for principle; yet one 
that, having this good and beautiful woman for his 
wife, made the keeping of her love and happiness 
merely incidental to the business of life. 

It was well for him that Phoebe Middleton’s 
173 


174 


PHOEBE 


childhood had been spent in such a way as to 
develop true nobility of thought and sentiment, and 
that, though she might slip and come near falling, 
yet she would not “blind her soul with clay.” It was 
well for him that Richard Carey was pure and 
clean, and that the thought of loving another man’s 
wife did not find ready entrance into his honest 
brain. 

Phoebe at this time was not conscious of any evil. 
She thought of Paul just as lovingly and possibly 
just as often as usual, but for the first time in their 
married life, she failed to miss him, when, as so 
frequently happened, he failed to come home. And 
once or twice, when she and Richard had some plan 
for the evening, she was a little relieved when he 
failed to appear. Dangerous symptoms truly! And 
Phoebe’s level head and her enlighted conscience 
would quickly have recognized them as such, had 
her vanity been less flattered and had she stopped 
to analyze the situation. 

She and Richard sang together almost every 
evening, for she had discovered that he had a voice 
of rare sweetness and some cultivation. The sound 
of their two voices, sweetly blended in one song, 
often made the wayfarer stop to listen. 

Sometimes they read, for Phoebe had a rare and 
delightful culture that was charming to a man whose 
reading had been broad. Sometimes he told her of 
his life, and of places that he had been. They found 
that they both admired Wagner’s music above all 


PHOEBE 


175 


things, and that each of them had enjoyed a season 
of his opera in New ^ork. The more they talked 
the more they found that their tastes were similar. 

Phoebe was more to blame than Richard. She 
was married and she knew, while as yet he did not 
know that he loved her. She could not tell exactly 
when the knowledge came to her that this charming, 
intelligent man loved her; but sometimes, in think- 
ing it over, she thought it must have been the first 
day that she saw him looking at her as she crossed 
the yard. 

Of course, she should have withheld herself en- 
tirely from his society as soon as she found that he 
loved her. But she did not. This is not a story of 
what might have happened, but of what really did 
happen, and however dark the picture it must be 
set down. 

The only extenuating circumstances lie in 
Phoebe’s absolute purity of thought, in the lone- 
liness of her married life, and in her great hunger 
for appreciation and for loving companionship. 

The condition that had come about would have 
been impossible under other circumstances, but 
Richard’s being a stranger, and his coming at an 
unguarded moment into the innermost circle of her 
home caused the trouble that came to them both. 

To the people of Melrose Phoebe was Phoebe 
Hamilton, good and beautiful, the fondly beloved 
wife of Paul Hamilton, one of the leading and most 
successful business men in the south. No man in 


176 


PHOEBE 


Melrose had ever dreamed of looking with other 
than respectfully admiring eyes in her direction. 
But to Richard Carey, coming into her home as he 
did, she was a beautiful woman, still young, lonely 
and neglected, with a husband that openly acknowl- 
edged that he was unfaithful to her. 

No woman is old at forty, unless she chooses to 
be, and Phoebe’s quiet life had greatly preserved 
her youthful appearance. Her eyes were still dewy, 
her lips and cheeks soft and pink, while the gray 
at her temples only added to the freshness and deli- 
cacy of her coloring. She had always been dainty in 
her dress and she had always been careful of her 
hands. Now she took particular pains to look 
charming. She was glorious in the full perfection 
of her midsummer beauty. 

Paul looked at her with new pride and admira- 
tion, and several times complimented her on her 
lovely appearance, but he did it lightly and care- 
lessly, little dreaming that Richard Carey compli- 
mented, not with the lips, it is true, but with eyes 
that caressed. 

Phoebe was a woman ripe and wifse. She knew 
that she danced with careless, happy feet upon the 
very brink of sin. Those that have been tempted, 
will pity her ! Those that have never been must close 
this book and lay it aside. It is not written for them. 

Phoebe knew that daily Richard Carey was be- 
coming more and more deeply and passionately in 
love with her, and with her woman’s intuition, she 


PHOEBE 


177 


also knew that he had placed her on a pedestal, that 
the thing that most attracted him was what he con- 
ceived to be her absolute purity and openness. So 
she walked on guard before him, never letting 
him suspect for one moment that she knew that he 
cared for her. She treated him with a sweet, open, 
yet tender, friendship that bound him to her with 
the strongest ties of a pure and hopeless love. He 
never at this time dreamed that he loved her, nor 
of any evil in connection with her. He only knew 
that in her sweet, gentle presence he lived, and 
when she was away he waited. He did not stop 
to analyze further. 

He enjoyed each golden day in her presence, and 
when night came he was no longer restless, but slept 
sweetly so as to be ready for the morrow. 

For the first time in all Phoebe Hamilton’s sweet, 
pure, protected life she was brought face to face with 
temptation and sin. Did it appall her? No. Did 
she shrink from it? No, she hugged it to her with 
greedy arms that had long been empty. She gloated 
over it in secret. 

Each glance of Richard’s tender eyes, each touch 
of his strong hand, told her of his love, and she 
gloried in it. It was so sweet to be loved. She 
had been hungry for it so long! 

Certain it was that at this time neither she nor 
Richard had any thought of Sin, but were living 
in a Fool’s Paradise of exquisite enjoyment in the 
present. 


CHAPTER XIII 


The swimming lessons progressed finely, and the 
boys had learned all that Richard could teach them 
in so small a pool. They were sighing for pastures 
new and other worlds to conquer, and kept urging 
Phoebe to let them go to the river. 

The river, however, was a broad, bold stream, and 
Phoebe would not consent. One day the subject was 
brought up at dinner when Paul was present, and 
he told them if Phoebe did not object he would take 
them in the automobile to the ford some miles above 
Melrose. Phoebe was prevailed upon to give her 
consent to this, though, Richard thought, she did it 
reluctantly. After dinner the two men and the two 
boys set out, equipped with bathing-suits and fishing- 
tackle. 

Phoebe looked at them wistfully when they went 
off, then she turned and went back into the house. 
On the hall-table was the mail, which the men had 
overlooked in their hurry to get off. There were 
several letters for Richard — one was written on 
dainty paper that was stamped with a monogram. 

Phoebe smiled as she thought how many like it 
she had seen in Richard’s mail since he came to 
178 


PHOEBE 


179 


Maplewood. For a girl that did not expect to be 
made love to this young lady certainly believed in 
keeping herself well in mind, thought Phoebe, and 
then she smiled again, a little. 

Among her own letters was one with a foreign 
postmark, which she immediately recognized as 
being from Clay. Gathering all her letters up she 
ran up-stairs to her room. A letter from Clay was 
becoming an increasingly rare treat as the years 
rolled by, and she was delighted to see that this was a 
thick one. His letters always touched the very high- 
est chord in her being, and this afternoon she could 
not keep back the tears as she read. He spoke in 
simple, unaffected terms of the life that he was liv- 
ing, and told of the results of his work with sincere 
thankfulness and joy. Clay’s fine attitude toward 
his work gave a pin-prick to Phoebe’s self-esteem,^ 
she felt a vague sense of dissatisfaction with her- 
self that' made her uncomfortable as she read. Sup- 
pose Clay knew of the vain way in which she had 
been living for the past few weeks. 

Contrasted with his life of noble self-sacrifice 
hers looked black. Her higher aspirations were 
touched, and her inclination was to fall on her knees 
and plead for forgiveness. She even tried to pray, 
but her prayer did not seem to rise. She knew why 
quite well. She knew that she had not surrendered 
self, and that she was trying to salve her conscience 
by praying to be forgiven for a sin that she was not 
willing to give up. But it was so sweet to be loved ! 


i8o 


PHOEBE 


She could not give it up yet. This delicious cup 
that she had barely tasted! Paul loved her, of 
course, but with him it was different. He was so 
absolutely accustomed to her, and he was so en- 
grossed in business that he hardly ever gave her a 
thought during business hours. 

But Richard. Ah, Richard showed in a hundred 
gentle, tender ways each day that he thought of her 
constantly. She was purblind and reckless as yet, 
and gave no thought to his pain when he should 
come to know. 

She felt restless and dissatisfied with herself, so 
she dressed rather earlier than usual and went down- 
stairs. The afternoon was very warm, and the 
fragrance from the garden was most inviting. 
Nearly all the early roses were withered and gone, 
but a few of later varieties were still blooming, and 
they seemed to make up in sweetness for what they 
lacked in number. 

She strolled about aimlessly for a while, with 
Clay^s letter hidden in the bosom of her dress. Then 
an idea occurred to her. She and William would 
arrange the tea-table in the garden, and have some- 
thing unusually tempting for the men and boys to 
eat when they came in. She immediately set about 
her preparations. When they came home just as 
the full moon was rising over the city and flooding 
the garden with its silvery light, she had everything 
in readiness. She had even stuck a red rose in her 
own dark hair. 


PHOEBE 


i8i 


Paul had time only to drink hastily a glass of 
iced tea, and then he had to rush back to the office 
to make up the time that he had given to the boys. 

Richard and the boys did full justice to her 
dainties, however, and Phoebe felt repaid for her 
trouble in preparing them. 

The boys had had a glorious afternoon, and each 
had performed some wonderful feats in swimming. 
Directly after tea they ran off to tell Mammy Linda 
and Hester all about the afternoon’s performance. 

The effect of Clay’s letter had not entirely worn 
off, and Phoebe was looking grave. Her voice had 
the plaintive note in it that always went straight to 
Richard’s heart. Her eyes too looked a little heavy 
as if she had been crying. 

Richard noticed instantly that something had 
happened to distress her, and he harassed himself 
by trying to think what it could be. Had she really 
minded the boys’ going to the river? Had she 
thought he and Paul were two brutes for taking 
them, when they knew it made her anxious? Pos- 
sibly she had been alarmed because they stayed out 
so late. All kinds of conjectures passed through 
his mind, and he tried by every gentle art of which 
he was master to divert her mind and to help her 
regain her merry spirits. 

He was successful, for as they rose from the table 
she was laughing gaily. 

Just as they rose a letter with a foreign post- 
mark and addressed in a man’s bold handwriting 


PHOEBE 


182 

slipped from the front of her dress and dropped at 
his feet. As he picked it up and handed it back to 
her he could not help seeing it. What man could be 
writing to her, and what country had a postmark 
like that, he asked himself. A singular feeling, 
that was altogether new, took possession of him. 
He seemed to know by intuition that the man had 
no right to write to her. Why did she allow it, 
he wondered. He felt a painful degree of curiosity 
about the letter. As he handed it back to her the 
shadow came back to her eyes, and she tucked it 
away carefully. 

Instead of going into the house, he proposed 
that they should walk about a little. Presently they 
strolled to the rustic seat near the pool. The great elm 
cast a cool, dark shade where they sat ; the pool shone 
in the moonlight, and on its gently rippling surface 
a myriad of half-closed water-lilies rocked. The 
soft underground flow of the water made a sooth- 
ing murmur, but Richard’s heart was not at rest. 
Why would she let this foreigner write to her ? Who 
could he be? Perhaps he was some one that dis- 
tressed her, and she did not know how to deal with 
him. He wished that she would tell him what trou- 
bled her. He felt sure that he could help her, if 
she would. He could not ask her though, for to- 
night she seemed unapproachable and far-away. 

She sat quietly in the shadow for a few minutes, 
and then she asked: 

'‘Did you get your letters? There were several.” 


PHOEBE 


183 


Then she added demurely: ‘‘One was from the 
fiancee. You see I have learned to know her mono- 
gram.” 

“Oh, well,” said Richard carelessly, “I guess 
they’ll wait. . . . You seem to have a letter, 

too.” 

“Yes,” said Phoebe gently, with a little sobbing 
catch in her breath; “mine is from Clay.” 

“Who is Clay?” he asked quickly. 

Then she told him of the dear twin brother, who 
had been away for over fifteen years. Her eyes 
filled with tears and her sweet voice trembled as she 
talked tenderly of him, and Richard felt his own 
eyes grow misty in sympathy. He suddenly felt 
kindly to all the world ; his vague sense of discom- 
fort was entirely dispelled. After a while they went 
into the house, and Phoebe went to her room. 
Richard took his mail into the library^ 


CHAPTER XIV 


The next morning at breakfast Phoebe was late. 
When the others went into the dining-room, her 
chair was vacant and there was no sign of her any- 
where. Richard felt as if the sun had suddenly 
gone under a cloud. That which made the morn- 
ing meal so attractive at Maplewood was missing. 

Paul asked the boys casually if their mother was 
ill. He had been since daylight in a little room 
that he used as a study and he had not seen Phoebe. 

The boys did not know why she was late, and the 
subject was dropped. But Richard chafed. Why, 
he thought, did not some of them go and find out? 
Phoebe — he did not know when he had commenced 
to think of her as Phoebe — was usually punctual, 
and not at all given to indulging herself at the ex- 
pense of the comfort and pleasure of her family. 
She must be ill. He fumed inwardly, while they 
all sat and ate their breakfast as if there was noth- 
ing the matter. Paul read the paper, the boys talked 
about baseball. Richard was indignant! “What 
on earth is the matter with me?” he asked himself. 
It was none of his business if they chose to neglect 
Phoebe, but for some reason inexplicable to himself 
he seemed to resent their doing so very much. 
i84 


PHOEBE 


185 


Paul had nearly finished his coffee, when suddenly 
Phoebe came into the room, looking radiant. She 
wore a dress of soft thin white material; her hair 
was completely hidden by a wide black hat trimmed 
with a wreath of crimson roses. In her hand she 
carried a bunch of the same glowing flowers. 

‘"Why,” she exclaimed, “am I late ?” 

As she came in, the sunshine seemed to fill the 
room. 

“I made William take me down town,” she went 
on, “and I was kept waiting longer than I thought. 
It is so warm to shop later in the day.” 

She sat down at the table with her hat on as she 
spoke, and helped herself to fruit. Paul excused 
himself, and rose to go ; but glancing at Phoebe, he 
saw how exceptionally sweet and girlish she looked. 
He looked lovingly at her and put his hand softly 
on her cheek and would have kissed her, had not 
Richard been present. She blushed prettily and 
looked lovelier than ever. The boys rushed out to 
ride with their father to the office, and Richard and 
Phoebe were left alone. She could scarcely keep 
from showing self-consciousness, so adoring was his 
look. 

“I wonder,” he said softly, “if you have any idea 
of how beautiful you are, or if you, like Mr. Hamil- 
ton and the boys, are used to it !” 

It was the first time he had ever paid her an open 
compliment and she chose to ignore it. 


PHOEBE 


1 86 

“Oh, Paul and the boys are all right. They miss 
me when I am away, even if they don’t appreciate 
me when I am about,” she said lightly. 

Just as she spoke the ’phone rang, and she asked 
Richard if he would answer it for her. He had 
finished breakfast, and Hester was busy. 

“It is Long Distance, for you, Mrs. Hamilton. 
I can’t quite make out where from — King’s some- 
thing or other,” he called. 

“All right,” said Phoebe, “I’ll come. I suspect 
it is Bruce at King’s Quarter.” 

And so it turned out to be. Little Phoebe was 
seriously ill, Bruce said, and Annie was worn out 
with nursing, and could she come to them ? 

It was settled at once that Phoebe would go down 
to Bruce’s on the eleven o’clock train. 

“Who will see you off?” Richard presently asked; 
“Mr. Hamilton, or the boys ?” 

“Neither,” answered Phoebe; “Paul couldn’t pos- 
sibly take the time, and the boys have gone to the 
baseball park to practice. I’ll make William take 
me down in the car.” 

There were some strangers in the city to whom 
Paul felt that he must show some attention. He 
had sent them to ride in the car, and William did not 
get home in time to take Phoebe to the station. 
She decided to go on the street-car, but when she 
came down, ready to go, she found that Richard had 
hitched Gary to the buggy and was waiting for her 
at the front steps. The little act of thoughtfulness 


PHOEBE 


187 


touched her inexpressibly, and her manner was very 
gentle and sweet to him during the short drive to 
the station. 

''I tried to ’phone to Paul,” she said presently, 
‘‘but he was busy and couldn’t answer, and I did not 
have time to wait. I left a little note for him. 
Please tell him and the boys good-bye for me, and 
tell him how kind you have been.” 

She lifted her eyes to his but she had to let them 
drop because of what she saw there. Pity, love, 
renunciation, — all mingled. He did not know that 
this was so, but she knew. Her hand lingered in 
his for one instant, then the whistle blew, and in a 
few seconds she was gone. Richard got into the 
buggy and drove slowly back to Maplewood. All 
that day and the next and the next his work 
dragged. On the fourth day he spent most of the 
time with his head in his hands, only straightening 
up and attempting to look natural when he heard 
some one coming. His eyes were large and hard 
and bright. His face looked haggard and old. 

Paul was preoccupied with business affairs and 
did not notice Richard, but the boys thought that he 
must be ill, and they wished that their mother had 
been there to doctor him. The truth is that poor 
Richard had found out! He knew now where he 
had been walking, all unconsciously, ever since he 
had first seen Phoebe. He knew why she had inter- 
ested him so strangely from the very first. He 


PHOEBE 


1 88 

loved her! He loved her! He loved her! God 
help him! God help him! He loved her! 

It seemed to him that every fibre of his being was 
bound up in her. And she could be nothing to him. 
Nothing! She w^^s pure and good, and she had no 
idea of what he was suffering. She would, he told 
himself, be horrified that he had desecrated her mar- 
riage vows by even thinking of love in connection 
with her. 

He determined to hurry with the work and get 
away before she came home. It was hard to work 
when he was so miserable, for he was not used to 
pain. All his life it had seemed good to him to be 
alive and well, but he had never dreamed of such a 
thing as this. He worked feverishly all day, and at 
night he walked sometimes until the light of day was 
paling the stars in the east. 


CHAPTER XV 


After a day and a night of this misery his fight- 
ing blood stirred. Why should he give her up, he 
thought. Her husband was untrue to her. Surely 
even here in the south where some of the states did 
not recognize divorce at all it would be possible for 
her to obtain her freedom for a cause so grievous 
as that. 

Would she do it? That was the question! Did 
she care for him? She was so sweet, so guarded, 
so honorable, so pure, that such a thought had 
probably never entered her head, he told himself. 
Very well, he would put it there. He would win 
her, if he could. 

But he was not happy in this decision. He knew 
that he had made up his mind to dishonor, for as a 
Catholic he had been trained not to recognize 
divorce for any cause whatever. Of course, it was 
different when it came to his own happiness, how- 
ever, and he reasoned himself into claiming that 
there were extenuating circumstances. 

It would be a relief to have some one to talk 
things over with, he thought. He wished for 
Oliver, whose head was always level, and who would 
189 


190 


PHOEBE 


have helped him to see clearly. He even tried to 
write to Oliver, but what he had to say did not look 
well on paper. He tore the letter up. Ah, he knew 
what he would do ! He would go to Father Brad- 
well, and in a confession tell him the whole miser- 
able story, and see what he would advise him to do. 
He had heard from a number of sources of this 
priest’s purity of life and breadth of intellect, and 
he decided to go to confession. 

One evening just at dusk, he slipped into the 
little confessional and fell on his knees. He poured 
out the whole story without reservation and without 
any attempt at extenuation. He told of his love, of 
his misery of renunciation, of his determination to 
have her at all costs. 

The old priest waited until he had poured out all, 
then very gently, but firmly, told him his duty, told 
him that unlawful love was a grievous fault, but 
that it could be overcome. He told Richard that he 
must not voluntarily look at the woman, nor speak 
with her, nor touch her. He must not even think 
of her. To do so was sin. He told him that as a 
son of the Church he knew that divorce was unlaw- 
ful. Even though it was recognized by the State, it 
was not recognized by the Church, and divorced 
persons that married again lived in a state of un- 
holy love. 

Then the old man lifted up his voice and prayed 
for help for this miserable and sorely tempted 


PHOEBE 


191 


brother. When Richard got up and came away 
there was the agony of renunciation in his soul. 

All that night he could not sleep, and during most 
of it he worked as if his task must be finished by 
morning. 

“O God!” he thought, “if I could only finish 
and get away before she comes back with her gentle, 
merry ways and her sweet, questioning eyes.” 

The home life went on as usual. Paul came and 
went, less frequently it is true than when Phoebe 
was at home, but still he was at home a part of each 
day. The boys took Mammy’s breakfast to her and 
Hester looked after the housekeeping, but the music 
was gone from the home. 

Richard worked like a galley-slave and accom- 
plished a great deal. 

And what of Phoebe during all this time? She 
found little Phoebe very ill ; for some days the child 
required all her thought and attention. She cared 
for her tenderly and faithfully, but in an absorbed, 
far-away manner, that made Bruce and Annie 
wonder. 

They thought her lonely life had begun to leave 
its impress on her, and while they found her gentle, 
quiet ways soothing, yet they regretted the old merry 
Phoebe that used to make them laugh. 

Truth to tell, Phoebe was obsessed. She thought 
of herself constantly as a hypothetical third per- 
son. What if she should let Richard see at some 
unguarded moment how interested she was in him ? 


192 


PHOEBE 


She could imagine the burning words that he would 
speak, the look in his eyes ! She knew that she did 
wrong, but she could imagine the bliss of hearing 
again such words as Paul used to speak to her. The 
very thought was like a strain of almost forgotten 
music and she returned to it again and again. 

What, she asked herself, if this hypothetical per- 
son should be divorced? She knew that divorces 
were hard to get in the southern states. She did 
not know exactly what the law was in her own 
state, never before having been interested in the 
subject. What if this person went away with 
Richard? Nothing could be easier. Nobody paid 
any attention to her going and coming. But Paul 
would not have her then! Then she would stop 
short and say: 

^'Phoebe Hamilton, I believe that you are losing 
your mind I You know you love your own husband. 
You know you would not be divorced for anything 
in earth, nor sky, nor sea! Think of your beauti- 
ful boys growing up to despise you and acknowl- 
edging their relationship to you only by a blush of 
shame !’^ 

Then she would begin all over again. Did she 
care for Richard Carey? No, no, a thousand times 
no! What was the matter then, for she certainly 
gave to him a great deal of thought? 

Ah! she had it now. It was that he loved her, 
and it was so sweet to be loved. That was it, she 
was in love with being loved ! 


PHOEBE 


193 


Each day, and far into the night, she wearied 
herself with questioning. The cords were tighten- 
ing around her, for such speculation as this seemed 
almost like infidelity to Paul, and she could not 
control her thoughts. 

“God help me,” she would murmur restlessly, and 
turn her head from side to side on the pillow from 
which all sleep had fled. But God did not help. 
Her prayer would not rise. She was not yet willing 
to give up her sin. She was beginning to see, but 
not wholly — as yet. 


CHAPTER XVI 


One morning when nobody was expecting her 
Phoebe came home. She came up from the station 
on the street-car, and slipped quietly in before any- 
one but William, who let her in, knew that she had 
come. 

She ran up to her room, and took off her travel- 
ing-dress, and put on a simple rose pink house-dress. 
Then, having bound her hair in a soft fluffy fashion, 
she went down-stairs. 

She turned naturally into the library as she 
passed, to speak to Richard. She was amazed at 
what he had accomplished in the two weeks that 
she had been away. The work was practically done. 
A large box from the binders was open near the 
table in the middle of the floor. Richard was stoop- 
ing over it busily unpacking and did not hear her 
enter. 

She stood still a moment, smiling, then she spoke, 
^‘Are you not going to say that you are glad that I 
am back, Mr. Carey?” 

Richard turned as if he had been struck; then a 
look of radiant joy came into his face. In a mo- 
194 


PHOEBE 


195 


ment he controlled himself. He turned back to his 
work, and said in a strained, unnatural voice, “I am 
very glad to see you back, Mrs. Hamilton.” 

But he did not look up nor offer to shake hands 
with her. Phoebe hesitated for a moment, then 
she walked straight up to him and putting her firm, 
strong hand under his chin turned his face up until 
he had to look at her. She never forgot that look 
nor the agony of the tender, beseeching eyes. 

He said no word, but Phoebe’s hand dropped, and 
for the first time in her whole life she was ashamed 
of what she had done. For the first time his side 
of the question appealed to her, and she was filled 
with remorse. 

“You are suffering!” she cried, appalled. 

“I am suffering,” he said desperately, without 
looking at her, “but there is nothing that anyone can 
do. ... I have been a fool I” 

He did not speak again, and Phoebe had to be 
satisfied with this explanation, or lack of one, but 
all that day she was miserably uncomfortable. 

Richard worked desperately. At dinner he told 
Paul that he hoped to finish and to get away by the 
first of the next week. 

Phoebe listened with a sudden little sinking of 
the heart. She would miss this man when he was 
gone. She would miss his pleasant, companionable 
ways, but most of all she would miss the atmosphere 
of love with which he had surrounded her lonely 
life during the past few weeks. 


196 


PHOEBE 


Paul, however, was pleased to know that the work 
was nearly done, and was too busy to give much 
attention to details. 

The boys did not come in until late, and did not 
know that Phoebe had come back. When they 
found that she was there they covered her face with 
kisses. Paul looked delighted at their joy and 
Phoebe was delighted to see them. After one or 
two bearish hugs, however, she put up her hands 
and pretended that they were tumbling her hair. 

She involuntarily glanced at the two men. Paul 
was looking at the boys with fatherly pride on his 
fine face, but Richard was looking at her with eyes 
that hungrily devoured her. He looked quickly 
away and did not speak to her during dinner. 

Again she had a sudden swift sensation of loss. 
What could she do, she asked herself, what could 
she do ? She had brought pain and misery upon 
this man. She had thought only of her selfish grati- 
fication in being loved. What could she do? 

All the afternoon she stayed in her room, osten- 
sibly unpacking and arranging her wardrobe — in 
reality battling with remorse. When it was almost 
dark she stole out to speak to Mammy Linda. 

Richard had tried to work but had failed. His 
brain refused to do his bidding, and would only 
reiterate with dull insistency: “She has come back, 
and I must not look at her nor speak to her! 

I must not even listen to her dear voice 
when she speaks, or laughs, or sings !” 


PHOEBE 


197 


All the afternoon he had struggled with himself, 
and then he heard her go out to Mammy Linda’s. 
He made a sudden fierce resolve. He was no 
puppet, he said to himself, to be ordered around by 
an old priest. He was young and his blood ran warm 
in his veins ! He would at least enjoy her sweet so- 
ciety for the few remaining days that he was here, 
and then he would drink his bitter cup to the dregs. 
Quickly smoothing his hair and straightening his 
tie, he took up his cap and followed Phoebe. 

When he got to Mammy Linda’s he could hear 
voices inside, one peevish and fretful, the other soft 
and soothing. After a time all was still and he 
walked up and down waiting for Phoebe to come 
out. Presently she came through the growing dark- 
ness, her face and dress showing white through the 
gloom. 

She gave a little start of surprise when she saw 
him, and her heart gave a quick throb of pleasure. 
Bareheaded and smiling, he came forward to meet 
her. 

‘‘1 am glad to see you back, Mrs. Hamilton,” he 
said; '‘I was a boor this morning. Will you for- 
give me?” 

He held out his hand to her as he spoke. She 
laid hers in it, immensely relieved. Maybe things 
were not going to be so difficult after all, she 
thought. Maybe he did not care as much as she 
had thought. Maybe it was only her vanity that had 
made her think that he cared at all. 


PHOEBE 


198 

Quite happy they went into the house together, 
and nothing more was said about his behavior of the 
morning. 

Paul did not come in until late, and Phoebe and 
Richard and the boys had a merry tea together. 

After tea Phoebe and Richard sang. Never had 
their voice blended so sweetly, never had they so 
thoroughly enjoyed singing together. Afterward 
they sat on the piazza and talked until Paul 
came in. Richard soon excused himself, but instead 
of going to his room, he walked toward the country 
with long, practical strides. Phoebe saw him as he 
left. 

She sat and talked to Paul, who seemed delighted 
to have her at home again, but all the time her 
thoughts followed that silent figure striding toward 
the country through the darkness. For the first 
time she did not understand Richard. Before this 
he had been an open page for her to read, but to- 
night she was baffled when she thought of him. 

The night was very warm. Paul and the boys 
slept on the porch, but Phoebe could not sleep. 
After trying for a while, she got up and went into 
her little sewing-room, thinking that she would tire 
herself by reading. But she could not read. She 
kept thinking of Richard Carey striding along 
somewhere under the stars, and she came face to 
face with herself. She tried to excuse herself for 
having made him love her by saying to herself that 
she had not intended to do so. But she got no 


PHOEBE 


199 


peace of mind. She knew that she had intended to 
make him care since the day that she first saw him 
looking at her through the library window. 

She tried to pray for him and for herself, but 
she could not pray. For the first time in her life 
her religion was not a comfort to her. Her prayer 
would not seem to rise. She got no peace of mind, 
no rest for her weary soul. She was not yet ready 
to give up her sin, nor to beg for forgiveness. Even 
yet the thought that Richard loved her was like wine 
in her blood. 

She went over each step of the way again, from 
the time when he first looked at her as if he were 
looking for her up to the present time, and she knew 
absolutely that he loved her. The thought still gave 
her joy. 

What if she loved him? Did she? Would she 
be willing to go away with him? Would she be 
divorced for him? What did the Bible say about 
divorce anyway? She really had never read it 
carefully. Taking down her little Bible she turned 
the pages restlessly. 

She found Mark 10: 2-12, and read: 

“And the Pharisees came to him, and asked him. 
Is it lawful for a man to put away his wife? tempt- 
ing him. 

“And he answered and said unto them. What did 
Moses command you? 

“And they said, Moses suffered to write a bill of 
divorcement, and to put her away. 


200 


PHOEBE 


‘'And Jesus answered and said unto them, For 
the hardness of your heart he wrote you this pre- 
cept. 

“But from the beginning of the creation God 
made them male and female. 

“For this cause shall a man leave his father and 
mother, and cleave to his wife; 

“And they twain shall be one flesh : so then they 
are no more twain, but one flesh. 

“What therefore God hath joined together, let not 
man put asunder. 

“And in the house his disciples asked him again 
of the same matter. 

“And he saith unto them. Whosoever shall put 
away his wife, and marry another, committeth adul- 
tery against her, 

“And if a woman shall put away her husband, 
and be married to another, she committeth adultery.’' 

She turned again to Matthew 19:9, and read: 

“And I say unto you. Whosoever shall put away 
his wife, except it be for fornication, and shall marry 
another, committeth adultery: and whoso marrieth 
her which is put away doth commit adultery.” 

She turned the pages feverishly, but could find 
nothing more directly bearing on the subject. 

Why, she thought, if this Bible were true, she 
could not be divorced except for one thing. Her 
cheeks flamed crimson at the thought, even in the 
privacy of her own room. If this Bible were true 


PHOEBE 


201 


a divorced woman who married again was a crea- 
ture of shame! Of Sin! 

Horrible thought ! Phoebe Hamilton, Paul Hamil- 
ton’s dearly beloved and honored wife, That! Had 
a bolt of lightning struck at her feet her sudden 
revulsion of feeling could not have been greater. 
All her life she had prayed that her heart might be 
kept pure, and she had been trained to accept the 
Bible as her guide. She was overcome at the horror 
and danger of her position, and falling on her knees, 
all her vanity gone, she prayed to be forgiven for 
the sake of Him that died for sinners. All night 
long she wrestled in prayer, begging that for the 
sake of Christ her sin might be blotted out. When 
it was nearly dawn she heard Richard come in, and 
she prayed God’s help for him too. 

When finally she rose from her knees, she was a 
chastened and subdued Phoebe. At dawn she fell 
into a fitful sleep. 

When she had gone out Paul had roused just suf- 
ficently to speak a tender word of endearment to 
her, and then he had slept again. 

Phoebe’s heart and conscience had been made 
very tender by the vital experiences of the night. 
Her eyes filled with tears, in the darkness, and her 
love for her husband and children welled up a pure 
stream above her wickedness and folly. 


CHAPTER XVII 


The next morning Phoebe was very quiet at 
breakfast. She knew now how heartless and sinful 
she had been, and she was resolved to do all in her 
power to rectify the evil. But the evil consequences 
of evil were not so easily overcome. Richard, too, 
had fought out his battle in the night, and he 
meant to have her or die. 

While they were still at the table a telegram 
came for Paul, calling him to New York at once. 

'T’ll have to go on the 1 1 130 train,” he said, “as 
even the matter of a few hours is of importance.” 

Phoebe, who happened to be looking at Richard, 
saw the look that suddenly leaped into his expres- 
sive eyes, and for the first time she was afraid. She 
followed Paul up-stairs, ostensibly to help him with 
his packing, but in reality to beg him not to go. 

“O Paul!” she cried, “indeed I am not silly. I 
need you. Do not leave me here alone with Mr. 
Carey. It isn’t right.” 

But Paul only laughed at her. 

“Why, I never knew you to be so foolish, Phoebe. 
There is no reason why you and the boys should not 
stay here with Carey. He, so far as I can see, is 


202 


PHOEBE 


203 


a perfect gentleman. The boys are nearly grown, 
and you are no young, foolish thing. It would be 
nonsense for me to stay on that account. Besides, 
the business is urgent.” 

Phoebe played tremulously with the button on the 
front of his coat, but said nothing more. She knew 
that if the business was urgent that settled the 
matter, and she must fight out her battle alone. 

After bidding her a loving, but hasty, good-bye, 
for there were matters that needed attention at the 
office before he left the city, Paul left Phoebe alone. 
She lifted her heart in a prayer for guidance, and 
quickly decided that she would not see Richard 
at all that day. She stayed in her room and fought 
the long hard battle all over again. 

It was sweet to be loved and admired, she whis- 
pered to herself. It was sweet to be thought of first, 
and it had been so long, until now, since she had 
been first with anyone. She knew Paul loved her, 
he was tender and sweet always, but she knew quite 
well that she was not first with him. 

During the morning, Richard evidently worked. 
Phoebe did not go down to dinner, but in the after- 
noon she could hear him moving restlessly about, 
and finally, after tea, William brought her the fol- 
lowing note : 

I have been waiting for you all day. There is something 
that I must tell you. 


R. C 


204 


PHOEBE 


Phoebe’s heart leaped! Should she go? Should 
she let him tell her? Some of her vanity had re- 
turned, but her agony and shame of the night be- 
fore was too fresh to be put aside. Falling on her 
knees she again implored that One that never fails 
to hear when a contrite sinner calls, to guide and 
protect her and to save her from herself and from 
Richard. 

Shortly afterward Richard heard her come down- 
stairs and leave the house. He hurried out after 
her, but she stepped on the car just as he was in 
calling distance and w^as carried swiftly away. He 
grew restless and miserable. He had no doubt that 
she had run away from him; but he did not know 
why. Surely she did not think he would do her 
any harm. 

Then he blushed guiltily, for he knew that he 
had meant to harm her. He had meant to win her 
for himself, and in order to do it he had made up 
his mind to tell her that Paul was untrue. He had 
meant to blast her trust in her husband and steal 
her for himself. Suddenly Richard’s conduct ap- 
peared ghastly in his own eyes, and he too prayed 
for strength and forgiveness. 

As for Phoebe, after she read Richard’s note she 
suddenly understood that her only safety was in 
flight. She knew that if she yielded and let Rich- 
ard talk to her she might fall into some grievous 
fault, and she dared not trust herself. Could she, 
she asked herself, if she let Richard tell her of his 


PHOEBE 


205 


love, ever look Paul honestly in the face again? 
Could she ever let him kiss her in perfect faith, if 
she had listened to another man’s burning words 
of love? Could she even be physically pure, if she 
let a man other than her husband speak to her words 
that no married woman should hear? 

Her resolve was quickly taken. She would go to 
Eloise Dawson’s and spend the night. Eloise loved 
her and would be delighted to see her and was never 
one to ask too many questions. She dressed quickly, 
and putting a few necessary articles in a bag, she got 
down just in time to catch the uptown car. She 
thought that she heard some one hurrying after 
her, but she did not look back, she stepped on the 
car that was just then coming. Eloise was de- 
lighted to see her and took it as a matter of course 
that she was lonely without Paul. 

Phoebe reached Eloise’s in time to put the baby 
to sleep, and as she held the little soft warm body 
close to her the feeling of pain and struggle left 
her; once more her heart was at peace. The next 
day was Sunday, and as Eloise had one of her bad 
headaches, Phoebe stayed with the children. She 
telephoned to let the boys know where she was and 
to tell them to be sure to go to church. In the after- 
noon Paul and Clay came up to Eloise’s and re- 
ported that things were all right at home. 

While the boys were out Dr. Carmichael went to 
Maplewood. Finding the house open but seeing no 
one about he slipped into the library to see how 


2o6 


PHOEBE 


it looked. He found Richard Carey there, and was 
dismayed to see how ill and worn he looked. He had 
remembered Richard as looking particularly fresh 
and well when he saw him before. 

“Why,” he exclaimed, “Mr. Carey, I am afraid 
you have gotten malaria down here! 

Does Phoebe give you a net, or have the mosquitoes 
been troubling you?” 

Richard smiled a wan, haggard smile and said, 
“Mrs. Hamilton does everything for my comfort 
and pleasure.” 

Something in Richard’s tone or expression threw 
light on the kind old doctor’s mind, and he said : 

“Mr. Carey, you are a stranger here. You are 
in trouble. Tell me about it, and I will gladly help 
you, if I can. At any rate there will be no harm 
done.” 

Richard felt a great tension give way in his 
brain and his tender eyes became wistful at the 
tone of kindness in Dr. Carmichael’s voice. 

Grasping the doctor’s hand, he said, “I do not 
know what you will think of me, but I will tell 
you.” 

Then he told the whole sad, painful story from 
beginning to end. When he had finished the doctor 
sat perfectly still for a few minutes, then he asked, 
“What does Phoebe say?” 

“Mrs. Hamilton does not know,” Richard an- 
swered ; “I begged her to see me last night, but she 


PHOEBE 


207 

would not, and she went to Mrs. Dawson’s for the 
night.” 

The old doctor beamed. 'T might have known 
that she was honest,” he said. ‘T would stake my 
life on her honor. But what made her leave home? 
Do you suppose she suspected the state of affairs?” 

'T do not know. I imagine that I have betrayed 
a good deal by my manner since she came back, 
but I have never said a word to her that all the 
world might not have heard. I would have done 
so, if she would have seen me last night, however. 
Honestly, doctor, I would not have dreamed of try- 
ing to win her love, if Paul Hamilton had been true 
to her. I would have left her to her happiness while 
I bore my pain alone.” 

The doctor started. “What did you say!” he 
exclaimed; “Paul Hamilton unfaithful to Phoebe! 
Why, man, he worships her. How did you ever get 
such an idea into your head? There is certainly 
some mistake here.” 

“I don’t see how there can be any mistake,” said 
Richard miserably. “He told me so himself, the 
first day I was here.” 

“Told you himself! Told you what? Why, 
man, you are crazy! Paul Hamilton would lay 
down his life for Phoebe any day in the year ! What 
did he say that made you think such a thing?” 

Then Richard repeated the remark that Paul had 
made to him the first morning of his stay at Maple- 
wood. Dr. Carmichael laughed heartily. 


208 


PHOEBE 


“Why, he didn’t mean one thing by that, except 
that he is forever and eternally at that office, while 
Phoebe is here. Have you come here with your 
Yankee literalness and thought such evil as that of 
him for more than two months?” 

Richard had to smile. 

“I have thought it very peculiar at times, I’ll 
admit,” owned Richard, “for he always has seemed 
to love her. Though I hold to it that if he does, he 
neglects her shamefully. I have been here as you 
say for over two months, and during that time I 
could almost count on my fingers the evenings that 
he has spent with her, or the times that he has 
taken her out. How was I to know that what he 
said was just his way of expressing himself, and 
meant no harm at all?” 

“Well,” said the doctor, “all this discussion does 
not help you with your trouble. Now, what can be 
done about it? I am a practical man and I believe 
in taking a practical hold of things. I don’t in the 
least blame you for loving Phoebe Hamilton. I 
would hold that any man' was a dolt or a fool that 
could live in the same house with her for two 
months and not love her. All I blame you for — 
is for loving her wrong ” 

“No, no,” Richard interrupted, “as God is my 
witness, I have thought no evil in connection with 
her. She is too pure, too high, for that.” 

“But you have loved her wrong all the same,” 
persisted the doctor. “You have wished to have her 


PHOEBE 


209 


for your own, and that under the circumstances is 
wrong. Indeed, under any circumstances it would 
be wrong, for she is older than you by several 
years. I have seen many marriages that were un- 
happy for no other reason than that. It is against 
nature and God’s scheme of things. The male 
should always be the older and the stronger. Phoebe 
is beautiful and charming; but even were she un- 
married, she would be no fitting mate for you. You 
should marry a woman at least three years younger 
than yourself and rear a fine family of children of 
your own. Forgive me for seeming harsh and 
abrupt, but I have watched for many years and I 
know. . . . Love her all you wish, enjoy her 

all you can, but don’t let sentiment come in. Let her 
be your friend. She makes the sweetest kind. 

I am glad you spoke to me, Mr. Carey, 
and I have no fear that you will not prove your- 
self a man. You have too good a jaw for that!” 

The doctor rose to say good-bye, and Richard, his 
heart already lighter, shook him warmly by the 
hand. 

“Thank you more than I can tell you, doctor,” 
he said, “for bearing with me; and, believe me, I 
shall try to profit by your advice. I shall try to show 
myself a man.” 

The two men parted, the doctor to carry help and 
good cheer to some other suffering one, and Richard 
to try to adjust himself anew. 

There was a good deal, he thought, in what the 


210 


PHOEBE 


old doctor had said. If he loved Phoebe right, 
there could be no harm in his loving her all he 
wished. He need not have to go away feeling that 
he could never look lawfully on her sweet face 
again, that he could never touch her, that he could 
never be near her any more. ‘‘Ah, God !” he thought, 
“how sweet it would be to feel that I could some- 
times be near her without sin !” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Phoebe stayed with Eloise until early Monday 
morning; then she came home to Maplewood in 
time for breakfast. She looked a little pale and she 
felt anxious as to what the day might bring forth; 
but she felt that propriety demanded that she go 
home for the day at least. 

Richard, to her great relief, was looking much 
better and more rested, and he seemed quietly glad 
to see her. After breakfast she went with him to 
see the library and could not refrain from express- 
ing her warm pleasure in the amount and quality of 
the work that he had done. 

He then told her that he would leave that after- 
noon for West Virginia, as he had an engagement 
there. 

'T shall never forget the days that I have spent 
here, Mrs. Hamilton. You have all been very kind 
to me. I am sorry not to see Mr. Hamilton again, 
but as I had finished I thought best not to wait for 
him. He can communicate with me by letter, if 
there is any need.’’ 

As he spoke he handed her a card with his West 
Virginian address on it. Phoebe felt her eyes grow 


2II 


212 


PHOEBE 


misty. He was making such a manly effort to be 
brave. 

‘'You must come to see us,” she said gently, “any 
time that you are in our part of the world. We shall 
always be glad to see you.” 

“I shall hope to come some day, if I may,” he 
answered simply, and then they talked of other 
things. 

The day was a busy one. After an early tea 
Richard said good-bye to Phoebe, and William and 
the boys took him to the station in the automobile. 
As he took Phoebe’s hand in his and looked into her 
eyes at parting for one instant she saw the prisoned 
soul of the man look out; but he turned away 
quickly and was gone. 

It was better so she said to herself. She was glad 
that he was gone. There was no place for him in 
her life. None. Yet all the same she missed him! 
She missed his pleasant manner, she missed his 
companionable talk, but most of all she missed the 
atmosphere of tender thoughtfulness of her that he 
had surrounded her with. 

Then Paul came home, and they planned to go 
away for a while. Phoebe and Paul were in favor 
of the mountains, but the boys were for the sea- 
shore, and the boys finally won. 

They were a bright, happy party at the seashore, 
and Paul and Clay won the admiration of the colony, 
for their swimming was remarkably fine for boys of 
their age. 


PHOEBE 


213 


They came home rested and refreshed, and 
Phoebe took up again the thread of her quiet life at 
Maplewood. But the days were very monotonous. 
She tried to interest herself in outside affairs, and 
she found pleasure in the church work and in the 
charity work that her increased means enabled her 
to do. But her evenings were dull and lonely. The 
boys were working hard at school, and Phoebe in- 
sisted on their spending the afternoons in the open 
air so, except at mealtime, she was alone most of the 
day and every evening. Paul had found an accumu- 
lation of work at the office on his return from the 
seashore, and had to work every evening now to 
make up for the holiday. 

To a woman preeminently designed as Phoebe 
was for a full, happy home life the continued loneli- 
ness was very disappointing. 

“Oh, Paul,” she cried, more than once, ‘T need 
you so ! Can’t you manage to be with me a little 
more this winter?” 

Then he would be as tender as the tenderest heart 
could wish, and would tell her that the separation 
would not be much longer, for things were begin- 
ning to go as he had been planning all these years 
that they should go. 

With this she tried to be content, but there were 
many times when she was very lonely. She would 
not allow her mind to dwell on Richard Carey at 
all. The anguish of mind that she had endured 
during the last weeks of his stay in Melrose had 


214 


PHOEBE 


cured her of her folly. She knew that but for the 
mercy of God she might have committed some even 
greater sin or folly against Paul and her sons than 
she had been guilty of, something that even their 
love could not have overlooked. The feeling of 
remorse for what she had made Richard suffer was 
often present with her, however, and made her 
grave and depressed. She had found that /‘the 
pleasures of sin were but for a season,” and that 
they left a bitter taste in the mouth. 

Christmas with its usual festivities came and 
went. Annie and Bruce and the children came up 
for the week, and they had a happy, merry time 
together. The children’s pleasure in the pretty 
Christmas-tree that Phoebe and the boys arranged 
for them filled Phoebe’s heart with pure pleasure. 
Then, too, she greatly enjoyed the packing and 
sending of a big box of good things to Clay. This 
had to be sent a month before Christmas, and all 
the family contributed something to it. Even 
Mammy Linda knit him a pair of soft slippers with 
her own feeble old hands. Phoebe sent a large 
framed picture of herself. It was beautifully 
tinted and had her sweetest expression ; it was very 
lovely. When they saw it, Paul and the boys teased 
her about being vain, but Phoebe laughed and said 
nothing. 

One morning during the first week in the new 
year Eloise came running in. 

“Oh, Phoeb,” she cried, “I have such news! 


PHOEBE 


215 


Nat is coming home, and is going to bring his bride. 
Think of there being a bride after all these years !” 

“Who is she?” asked Phoebe, greatly interested. 

“She is a little English girl that he met at Hong 
Kong last year. He fell in love with her, but 
she wouldn’t marry him then. She has evidently 
changed her mind, for they are to be married on the 
tenth of this month, and will sail with the fleet 
immediately. . . . Think of having dear old 

Nat back after all these years of wandering about 
the face of the earth. Neither of you ever said any- 
thing about it to me, but I always half fancied that 
you were the cause of Nat’s leaving home, and 
going into the navy. . . . Well, well, we 
must have an awfully swell reception for them 
as soon as they arrive, and of course, Phoeb, you 
are to help receive. What will you wear ? I haven’t 
a suitable dress, and I told Cliff this morning that 
I would just have to have something really sweet. 
And what do you think he had the impudence to 
tell me?” 

“I am sure I don’t know,” answered Phoebe, 
smiling. 

“He said he’d bet Mrs. Hamilton wouldn’t have 
to have a new dress, and that he’d wager she would 
outshine every other woman there. You see what 
I have to submit to for having a grand-looking 
creature like you for a best friend,” and Eloise 
kissed Phoebe lightly on each of her smooth cheeks. 

The bride and groom arrived the week before 


2I6 


PHOEBE 


Lent, and the reception was a great success. For 
once Phoebe entered into the spirit of a function, 
and worked herself weary arranging the little girls’ 
dresses and helping to plan the decorations and the 
refreshments. 

The little bride was very modest and fair — the 
sixth daughter of an impoverished earl — and was 
rather overcome at the grandeur of the preparations 
made in her honor. She confided to Paul, who 
looked very distinguished in his evening dress, that 
she would much have preferred a good game of 
tennis or a long ride on horseback to the grand re- 
ception that Eloise had planned. Nat was so gallant 
and handsome in his full naval uniform that the 
little lady was almost hidden under the shadow of 
his glory. 

Eloise wore cream lace over a delicate green silk, 
and looked sweet and charming. Phoebe was stately 
and beautiful in a dress of heavy ivory white velvet, 
beaded with pearls, and she wore a heavy rope of 
pearls (heirlooms from Aunt Allison) around her 
neck and in the soft waves of her dark hair. 

^'Don’t tell Cliff,” she whispered mischievously 
to Eloise, '‘but my dress is new too. I go out so 
little in the evening that I had nothing at all suit- 
able for such an event as this.” 

"If I only had two great boys like yours, I cer- 
tainly would go out whenever I felt like it. If I were 
you, I’d make Paul take me somewhere every even- 
ing.” 


PHOEBE 


217 


Phoebe smiled a little sadly, but said nothing, 
and Eloise ran on, “But I can hardly ever go at 
all, I have so many babies.” She tried hard to look 
ill used, but the dimples would come. It was well 
known that she was the most dotingly fond mother 
in Melrose. 

One morning in February Phoebe went as usual 
to take Mammy Linda’s breakfast to her and found 
the old woman dead in her chair. 

Phoebe and Paul and the boys and Hester and 
William all went down to Sunny Side to the funeral. 
They laid her by the side of the young husband that 
had preceded her over fifty years before. 

“You know, Paul, I can’t help wondering if 
Mammy and her husband will know each other after 
all these years,” Phoebe said that evening as she 
and Paul sat together in the gloaming at Sunny 
Side. 

Bruce was out on his rounds, Annie was putting 
the little ones to bed, and little Phoebe and Paul 
and Clay had gone for the mail. Paul took 
Phoebe’s hand gently in his, and said : 

“Well, I suppose it is just as well not to think of 
those things, but I think she is much more likely to 
know your father and mother. I am quite sure that 
they were much more important to her than her 
husband that died so many years ago.” 

After a pause Phoebe said: “How lovely it 
would be if we could be together like this every 


2I8 


PHOEBE 


evening. I wonder if you will come and stay with 
me when I get to be old.” 

Paul laughed. '‘Pll have to. When you are old 
I shall certainly be old too.” 

Bruce came in and asked Phoebe to sing. She 
sat and sang softly in the twilight, and the two 
men listened to each lingering note. Even the baby 
up-stairs in her little white bed raised her curly 
head and said, *‘Ush! shing!” And the children 
all lay quiet to listen. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Charlotte Chippendale and Marcia Carey had 
been life-long friends. They had gone to school 
together, had married near the same time, and had 
been left widows early in life. Charlotte had one 
child, a little girl, and Marcia had two fine boys. 
They belonged to one of Boston’s most exclusive 
circles, and were neither rich nor new. They had 
always lived in the same quiet street; the children 
had grown up together, and they were almost as 
intimate as brothers and sister. 

All Minerva Chippendale’s life Richard and 
Oliver Carey had been her heroes, but, as time went 
on and the gentle little girl grew into a woman, it 
was to Richard that her heart turned. He became 
her ideal. 

The boys treated her with affectionate indiffer- 
ence, and tolerated her as a playmate only because 
she was Minerva, or “Minna,” as they called her. 

The years passed. The three children had grown 
up and had finished their courses at college. Min- 
erva was gentle and refined and quite pretty, with 
a sweet, quiet, pensive beauty. All her young girl- 
hood, however, had been overshadowed by what 
219 


220 


PHOEBE 


seemed to be a hopeless love. Richard Carey treated 
her with the gentle deference that he accorded to 
all women, but otherwise only with the affectionate 
regard with which he might have treated a younger 
sister. He had always been a social favorite be- 
cause of his good looks and his attractive manner, 
and many bright eyes had sought his favor; but 
Richard Carey had remained heart whole. 

Charlotte Chippendale, at all times a most de- 
voted mother, gradually discovered that Minerva 
loved Richard. She was a resourceful woman and 
she had force of character. She was never one 
to sit idly by when things were going wrong. She 
immediately took steps to help matters : she knew 
that Richard did not love Minerva, but she also 
knew that he was eminently suitable as a husband 
for her, so she set about teaching him to love her 
daughter. She overwhelmed Richard with atten- 
tion. He was invited to lunch and to dinner, and 
he was always thrown as a matter of course with 
Minerva and treated as a son of the house. Char- 
lotte managed that he should always be seen with 
her and Minerva at concerts, at lectures, or at the 
opera until his attentions began to be noticed by 
their friends. 

Richard was either too guileless or too indifferent 
to heed where matters were trending. Things had 
been at this pass for some months. People were 
beginning to talk and to couple the young people’s 
names. 


PHOEBE 


221 


Charlotte went to spend the morning and take 
lunch with Marcia. They grew quite confidential, 
as women usually do over their work-bags in front 
of a cozy fire. Charlotte spoke of Richard and 
Oliver in the highest and most affectionate terms. 
Then she said that as an old and intimate friend she 
took the liberty of mentioning that she hoped before 
long to give Marcia some very pleasant news about 
Richard and Minerva. 

'‘Nothing is settled as yet,” she went on, “but I 
know Richard to be the soul of honor, and that he 
would compromise no woman, least of all Minerva, 
unless his intentions were serious. As for my own 
dear child I feel that I can say now what I would 
not have said before Richard commenced to show 
his intentions : she has always loved him, and I am 
sure that an engagement between them will be for 
her happiness.” 

Looking at the clock, she gave a little cry of 
dismay, and, saying that she had an engagement 
with the Colonial Dames at three o’clock, she gath- 
ered up her sewing and tripped daintily home, quite 
satisfied with her morning’s work. 

Later in the day when Richard came in, Marcia 
spoke to him. 

“I am very much pleased, Richard,” she said, 
“to know that you and Minerva are about to arrange 
matters so satisfactorily to us all. It will be a grati- 
fication to me to see you marry so fine a girl — a 
girl that we all know.'' 


222 


PHOEBE 


Richard looked amazed. “Why, mother,” he an- 
swered, “I don’t know what you mean! I am sure 
neither Minerva nor I ever gave such a thing a 
thought.” 

“What has your continued attendance on her 
meant, if it has not meant that?” Marcia remon- 
strated. 

“I assure you that I never thought of such a 
thing in connection with her,” Richard replied. “As 
for my continued attendance on her, I have only 
been there when I have been invited, and have only 
gone out with them when they seemed to have no 
other escort.” 

“At any rate, your names are being coupled, and 
no gentleman, least of all a Carey, has a right to 
compromise a trusting girl. I happend to know 
on good authority that Minna does care for you, 
and she is the girl of all others that I would be 
pleased to see you marry. I am getting old, now, 
my son, and it would give me great pleasure to see 
you and Oliver well married, and to see my own 
grandchildren growing up around me before I die.” 

Marcia’s eyes filled with tears, and her lips trem- 
bled a little as she spoke. Richard was very fond 
of this tiny, dainty mother. He kissed her gently, 
and told her that he would think over what she had 
said. 

He had a very affectionate regard for Minerva, 
and there was no one else that he cared for. He 


PHOEBE 


223 


was old enough to settle down, he told himself, and 
Minna was a dear girl with no nonsense about her. 

One spring evening after having taken rather 
more pains than usual with his appearance, he went 
to the Chippendales’ to call, and when he came away 
he was engaged to Minerva. There was great re- 
joicing in the two families, and there were numer- 
ous luncheons and dinners in honor of the engaged 
couple. 

This was the way that matters stood at the time 
that we first saw Richard and Minerva walking 
home together one May evening. 

While Richard was at Maplewood he was so fully 
taken up with the new life and with the experience 
of life that he was having, that beyond an occasional 
hastily written letter he gave little thought to 
Minerva. 

His stay in West Virginia was brief, as he worked 
almost night and day to finish the work and get 
away. One warm afternoon the latter part of 
August he arrived in Boston. 

Mrs. Carey had gone with Mrs. Chippendale 
and Minerva to a select mountain resort in the 
Green Mountains. Only Oliver was at home. His 
work kept him in the city the greater part of the 
summer, and Sigrid, their old housekeeper, made 
him comfortable. 

Oliver was just sitting down to his lonely dinner 
when Richard walked in. Oliver was appalled at 
how ill and worn Richard looked. 


224 


PHOEBE 


Richard scarcely tasted his soup; the roast fowl 
and the fruit suffered the same fate. Then, plead- 
ing extreme weariness, he went up to his room, 
which Sigrid had made comfortable with snowy 
sheets and a pile of clean towels. He paid no at- 
tention to these things, however, and throwing off 
his coat he lay face downwards on the white bed. 
He thought over all his troubles once more. 

He must not wish Phoebe for his own, he told 
himself. He must love her only as a friend. He 
could never hope to see her, nor hear her sweet 
voice again. Yet even now he could hear it ring- 
ing in some of the songs that they had loved to 
sing together. Could he never get away from the 
sound? There was the scent of roses in his room, 
and he had hoped never to smell another while he 
lived. Toward morning he fell into a restless sleep 
only to dream that he saw Phoebe smiling up at 
him as he looked at her out of the library window. 
He tried to get to her, but there was some terrible 
barrier, he could not tell what, and as he was strug- 
gling to go to her he woke. 

It was late, for the sun was shining, and he could 
hear Sigrid singing somewhere down-stairs. After 
a while he heard Oliver close his door and go down- 
stairs, but Richard felt strangely indifferent to 
everything about him. Turning his face to the 
wall, he slept again. Late in the day, almost at 
lunch time, Sigrid came up to see if he was awake. 
He had a high fever and was raving in delirium. 


PHOEBE 


225 


The old servant was very much alarmed, for she 
was devoted to Richard and Oliver, having helped 
to take care of them all their lives. She ran down- 
stairs and telephoned for the doctor and Oliver. 

They arrived at the same time, and the doctor 
pronounced Richard’s illness an attack of brain- 
fever, brought on by some strain under which he 
had been living. He would either have to be moved 
to the hospital, or he would have to have a nurse at 
home. The latter course was decided upon. Tele- 
grams were hurriedly sent to Mrs. Carey and Min- 
erva, and by noon of the next day they had arrived 
at home. 

Richard’s fever ran very high and his delirium 
was most distressing. He seemed to be begging 
for some one or something, and they could not 
make out who or what it was. He would begin by 
muttering, and then speaking louder he would cry 
a word or name, they could not tell which, in every 
tone of endearment or supplication of which his 
expressive voice was capable. At such times it was 
heartrending to be with him, and the nurse always 
had to give him an anodyne to soothe him. At 
other times he would talk glibly but unintelligibly 
for hours at a time, when only Oliver could quiet 
him. 

Gradually, however, as his strength grew less 
he grew quiet, and for days he lay in a heavy 
stupor without even a tremor of the long dark 
eyelashes that swept his flushed cheeks. 


226 


PHOEBE 


Minerva had been very brave from the first, and 
had insisted on taking her turn with the nursing and 
as Mrs. Carey was never strong, she had finally 
yielded to Minerva’s earnest desire to be a help. 

Richard never knew Minerva, though sometimes 
Oliver or Mrs. Carey could bring a gleam of intelli- 
gence to his eyes. He always held off from Minerva 
— not only as if he did not know her, but as if the 
sight of her was distasteful to him. It was hard on 
the girl, but she bore up under it bravely. One day 
she rushed from his room, and throwing herself into 
her mother’s arms wept as if her heart would break. 

Finally, after weeks of weary watching and of 
almost despairing anxiety, the fever disappeared, 
and one morning Richard woke up normal. His 
strength returned very slowly, and it was late in 
September before he could be taken to a quiet place 
in the country. Here he crawled slowly back to 
health. 


CHAPTER XX 


During the first few weeks in the country Rich- 
ard was patient and gentle, but very hard to rouse. 
He seemed not to take any interest in anything and 
his face wore a far-away expression that made 
Minerva’s heart ache. Her face too had been pathetic 
in its look of quiet suffering during these trying 
weeks. 

One day she was reading to Richard, and glanc- 
ing up surprised on his face a look that went to her 
heart because of its weariness and sadness. She 
laid the book down and took a quick resolve. 

'‘Richard,” she said, "there is something I have 
wished to say to you for weeks, but I have not had 
the courage to say it. You have been so weak and 
so ill that I hated to hurt or annoy you. Now I 
shall say it, because I think it is best for both of us. 
I have decided that I will not marry you.” 

She spoke almost roughly : then she looked pathet- 
ically at him. Richard colored faintly and looked 
at her gravely. 

“Why, Minerva?” he asked gently. 

“Because,” she answered, sadly, “you do not 
love me. I found it out when you were ill. There 
is some one else, Richard.” 


227 


228 


PHOEBE 


thought that we had not pretended to be very 
much in love, Minna.” Richard’s voice was very 
gentle, almost tender. “You know, I always told 
you that was why I cared for you. You are so 
sensible — you never expected me to talk love.” 

“I know I always said that, and I let you suppose 
that it was true, but I have found out differently. 
After I heard you talk to that other — that other 
woman — in your delirium,” Minerva’s voice fal- 
tered, “I decided that I was not willing never to have 
you talk love to me! There is no use for me to 
pretend, Richard. I care terribly, but I will not 
marry you when I know that you do not love me.” 

Poor Minerva looked down, very hard, at her 
pretty white hands. Then suddenly seeming to 
remember something, she pullled off the pretty ring 
that she wore and handing it to him she ran into the 
house. Richard sat as if stunned, but through the 
numbness there was a sensation of mingled pain and 
relief — pain at her pain, relief that he was no 
longer bound. 

He had suffered so much himself that his heart 
was tender toward the suffering of all others, but 
he was glad not to be bound and his innate sense 
of honesty was relieved at not having to pretend. 

The next morning Mrs. Chippendale and Minerva 
went home. Richard did not know what explana- 
tion the girl had made, but at any rate he was re- 
lieved that nobody asked any questions. From that 
day he grew steadily better. 


PHOEBE 


229 


Mrs. Carey’s heart told her that some great wrench 
had taken place in his life, but except that she was 
particularly tender to this tall son she made no 
allusion to what had occurred. 

One day when she and Oliver were talking to 
Richard, suddenly the little lady seemed to recall 
something. 

“By the way, you have never told me about the 
negroes in the south, Richard,” she said. “Did you 
think to investigate their condition when you were 
there?” 

Then Richard told her about Phoebe and old 
Mammy Linda. His voice was very gentle as he 
told the story, and when he had concluded his 
mother’s eyes were full of tears. 

That night Oliver stayed with him and begged 
him to tell him what had troubled him so much on 
this southern trip. Richard told the whole miser- 
able story. These brothers had always been de- 
voted to each other, and that night Richard went to 
sleep like a child on Oliver’s breast. 

By the last of October he was well enough to go 
back to the city, and shortly afterward he com- 
menced work again. Minerva was sweet and gentle 
to him always, but when he suggested that they 
renew their engagement she flushed painfully and 
very gently and firmly declined. 

The winter wore away. After Christmas things 
seemed to be brighter, and Richard had lost some- 
thing of the hopeless look that he had worn all 


230 


PHOEBE 


winter. One afternoon he went to see Minerva. 
He had slipped back into the habit of dropping in 
there informally and he always found her sweet 
and restful. This particular afternoon, however, he 
had to wait until she came down. There was a 
vase of red roses on the table; their odor filled the 
pretty, dainty room. All at once he seemed to see 
again the moonlit garden at Maplewood. He was 
sitting by Phoebe’s side on the rustic seat under the 
great elm, and he could smell again the red rose in 
her hair, while sleepy water-lilies rocked to the soft 
murmur of flowing water. 

Suddenly the longing to look into her face, to 
hear her voice, to touch her hand, came over him 
like a physical sickness, and he rushed from the 
room. 

The next morning saw him far on his way to the 
south. 


CHAPTER XXI 


Spring opened early in Melrose that year ; by the 
first week in March it was as mild as May, and the 
woods were fragrant with jasmine and dogwood. 

Paul and Clay had brought back large bunches of 
dogwood from the woods, and Phoebe had filled the 
vases and even the open fireplaces with branches 
of it. In the hall and library there were bowls of 
long stemmed purple violets. Phoebe too was 
dressed in a simple house-dress of some soft violet 
material, and had a bunch of violets stuck in her 
belt. 

She was more lonely than ever for she missed 
poor old Mammy Linda. She was sitting idly in 
the library. On the table were writing materials, 
but she was not writing and she was not even pre- 
tending to read. She was evidently lonely. Pres- 
ently she heard the bell ring; in another instant 
William, beaming with smiles of welcome, ushered 
Richard Carey into the room. 

Even in that instant Phoebe was relieved to find 
that her pulse did not quicken by a single beat, and 
she was able to go forward and meet him absolutely 
without self-consciousness. 


231 


232 


PHOEBE 


“Why, Mr. Carey,” she said cordially, “I am so 
glad to see you,” and she gave him her hand as she 
spoke. 

He looked at her with tender, despairing eyes. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. ... I came 
because I had to,” he added desperately. But 
Phoebe chose not to hear. 

“What have you done with yourself all this long 
time? Sit here near the window and tell me about 
yourself. And the fiancee ? How is she?” Phoebe 
spoke lightly and quickly, not giving him time to 
answer until he recovered himself. 

Richard smiled faintly, devouring her with his 
eyes the while. 

“I have been quite well since Christmas,” he an- 
swered,. “and have been working hard. As for the 
fiancee, there is none. She has declined to marry 
me.” 

Phoebe made a sudden desperate resolution — 
desperate cases require desperate remedies. 

“Perhaps she found out that you did not love 
her,” she said gravely. “You know a woman can 
always tell. It wouldn’t be possible for a man to 
deceive her, if she has had any experience.” 

Richard looked at her quizzically. She dropped 
her guard and let him see that she knew. 

“Then you have known all this time?” he asked 
simply. 

“Yes,” said Phoebe, “I have known all this time; 
perhaps it will make it easier for you, if we discuss 


PHOEBE 


233 


it in this impersonal way. I understand that as an 
honorable man nothing else is possible for you, and 
yet maybe it is best that you should know that I 
knew it even before you did. I have thought of the 
matter a great deal, and I know that I have acted 
very badly to you, Mr. Carey. I knew it and let it go 
on until it meant a great deal to you. I have been 
greatly to blame. . . . Believe me, it would 

not be possible to change our relation, even if I 
were not already married to a man that I truly 
love. I am a great deal older than you are, and you 
deserve much more than I could ever have given 
you. Can you forgive me for the great wrong that 
I have done you ? It would be sweet to me to feel 
that you would forgive me, and would be my friend 
— that we could meet as such without pain to either. 
Will you try to forgive me for the pain that I have 
caused you?” Phoebe held out her hand as she 
spoke. Richard took it gently in both his own and 
laid it softly against his cheek. 

“I could not be angry with you if I tried,” he said 
gently. “If you have done me any wrong I did not 
know it. You have taught me so much of what is 
beautiful that I am willing to bear the pain. I shall 
always love you, and since there is nothing else pos- 
sible for me, then let us be friends.” 

“Let us never speak of this again then,” said 
Phoebe, “and we shall be friends. When you go 
home tell the little sweetheart everything and start 
over. You will find it easier than you think. If she 


234 


PHOEBE 


loves you, and I think that she does, she will for- 
give you gladly.’^ 

Then they talked of other things, of his work, of 
his hopes, of his plans; and when he left Maple- 
wood Richard’s heart was lighter and his gray 
eyes more smiling than they had been in many a 
day. 

Phoebe asked him to stay to dinner, but he de- 
clined. He felt that he could not just yet. 

That evening, however, he came and they sang to- 
gether once more. Everything was just as it had 
been, except that Richard treated Phoebe with even 
more gentle deference than he had always done, and 
was more friendly in his manner to Paul and the 
boys. 

Paul came in unexpectedly, and for the first time 
in his married life he experienced a little qualm of 
jealousy when he heard Phoebe’s voice mingling in 
such sweet accord with Richard’s. 

“Who is with your mother?” he asked. He was 
not reassured when they told him that it was Rich- 
ard Carey. 

There was a vague feeling of unrest in his heart 
during the whole evening; he looked questioningly 
from one to the other when they laughed and jested 
and seemed to understand each other so well. In 
his own heart he questioned Phoebe’s taste in being 
so friendly with this Yankee that they knew abso- 
lutely nothing about. 


CHAPTER XXII 


The evening turned suddenly chill, as is often 
the case in early spring. Phoebe had a wood-fire 
made in the study; they all drew up in a circle 
around it and talked until late. Finally Richard 
rose to say good-bye, as his train left early in the 
morning and he would not see them again. Paul 
and Phoebe were left alone. Paul took Phoebe’s 
hand in his, and sat looking gravely into the fire. 
Presently he said : 

‘‘You know, Phoebe, this is the very first time 
I have ever felt that I did not make you quite 
happy. The loneliness of your life here seemed to 
come to me to-night as never before.” 

Phoebe’s dark eyes filled slowly. 

“There is no use denying that fact, Paul. I do 
get very, very lonely at times, but as for being un- 
happy, I am never that. Don’t you know that I 
thank God every day of my life for the happiness 
that he has given to me in you and the boys? I 
am quite, quite happy, but I do need you” and 
smiling through her tears she looked at him. 

But Paul was not satisfied. He went on gravely : 

“When I came in here to-night and heard you 
235 


PHOEBE 


236 

singing with Carey, I seemed to understand for the 
first time how lonely you must be to make you get 
so very friendly with a man that you know abso- 
lutely nothing about.” 

Phoebe smiled. That was the way the wind 
blew, was it? A spirit of mischief took possession 
of her, and she said demurely: 

“You forget that Mr. Carey was here in the house 
practically all last summer, and that you went to 
New York and left me here in his care. I didn’t 
know you objected to my singing with him, for we 
sang together almost every evening last summer. I 
understood you to say that you considered him a 
perfect gentleman.” 

“Well, I suppose he is a gentleman — I have no 
reason to think otherwise — but it did make me feel 
peculiar to come in and find you two singing to- 
gether as if I did not exist. And I might as well 
admit that I did not enjoy the feeling one bit. As 
for your having sung with him all last summer I 
don’t know that that helps matters any,” and Paul 
laughed lugubriously despite himself. 

Phoebe said gravely : 

“It is rather silly for us to be getting into an alter- 
cation over Richard Carey at this late day. Believe 
me, Paul, if I would have been injured — in any 
way — by having him here and singing with him, the 
harm would have been done long ago.” 

Paul started; the blood in his veins suddenly ran 
cold. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he in 


PHOEBE 237 

his blind absorption in business had placed Phoebe 
in a position to be insulted by this wretch ? 

“You don’t mean that he has ever dared to say 
anything to you, and that you have allowed it? O 
Phoebe \” 

He dropped her hand, and the mingled rage and 
pain of his tone made her know that she had gone 
far enough. 

“No, Paul darling. He never said anything to 
me in his life that you might not have heard, but 
there is a long, sad story about his stay here last 
summer. I have wished to tell you and have felt 
that you should know, but there never seemed to 
be any suitable time. You have been so busy, and 
we are so seldom together. If you will let me, I 
will tell you now.” 

Paul laid his hand heavily on her shoulder, and 
through dry lips said, “Tell me.” 

Beginning at the beginning she told the whole 
story of her temptation and sin in allowing Richard 
to love her. She told of her vanity and of her folly, 
of the misery that she had suffered when she found 
out what she had done. She told of the horror of 
the position that she had placed herself in, and of 
her agony and remorse when she found out what she 
had done. 

When she finished she did not look at Paul for 
an instant, then she turned to him with sweetest 
pleading in her voice. 


238 


PHOEBE 


“O Paul, my husband,” she cried, ‘'can you ever 
forgive me?” 

But Paul did not seem to hear. He sat as if 
turned to stone, his hands clenched and his jav^s set, 
looking straight before him. After a while he began 
to sob great dry heartbreaking sobs, and Phoebe 
out of her deep humility and contrition sobbed too. 
She had scarcely ever seen a man cry, and never had 
she seen Paul cry. The foundations of the world 
seemed to her to be giving away. Presently Paul 
controlled himself by a mighty effort ; turning to her 
he took her face in his hands and looking into her 
eyes as if he would read her very soul, he said: 

“Phoebe, are you sure, sure that you still love 
me ? That you do not regret anything ? I could not 
bear it if I felt that you were bound by duty and 
honor alone! Oh, fool, fool, that I have been to 
be so taken up with my business and ambition that 
I have neglected the very heart of my home. O 
Phoebe! my love! my love! ... I couldn’t 
live without you! You have no idea what yhu are 
to me. . . . And to think that I might have 
lost you!” 

He bowed his head on his hands and sobbed 
anew. It seemed to come over Phoebe as it had not 
done in many years how much he really loved her, 
and even in her distress of mind this knowledge was 
like a strain of sweetest music to her love-hungry 
heart. 

“Oh, no, Paul, there never was any danger of 


PHOEBE 


239 


that,” she cried. “As soon as that thought entered 
my mind I knew that it was you, and you only 
that I loved. The thing about Richard Carey that 
charmed me was his companionship, and the con- 
sciousness of being loved that he made me feel. I 
have been so lonely and so hungry for love and 
companionship all these years !” Phoebe looked at 
him, pathetic in her longing to be forgiven. 

“When I think of what I have subjected you to 
and of the danger that I have placed you in through 
my carelessness and selfishness, my heart faints 
within me. I feel that I have failed in that which 
was highest. To think that I swore to love and to 
cherish you, and that I have brought you to this!” 
Paul groaned. 

Suddenly something else seemed to occur to him. 
He turned and asked suspiciously, “If all this took 
place last summer, and he has no hope, why was he 
here to-night, and why were you so friendly?” He 
spoke almost fiercely. 

Phoebe told him of how Richard had come and of 
their conversation. 

“Possibly it was not womanly in me to speak to 
him as I did,” she said; “but I felt that I had done 
him a great wrong, and I was trying to do all in 
my power to help to make it right. Do you think I 
did wrong to tell him that I would be his friend?” 

“No, I suppose not,” Paul answered slowly. “It 
would not be exactly generous for you to decline 
to be his friend, especially when I appeared to be 


240 PHOEBE 

so indifferent that he probably thought that I did 
not care.” 

“Do you object to my being his friend?” asked 
Phoebe. “If you do, I will write and tell him that 
you feel that you cannot trust me, and that I must 
withdraw the promise that I made him to-day.” 

“Not trust you! Why should you write him 
that? Of course I trust you. Haven’t you given 
me every reason to trust you, and haven’t I myself 
to blame for all that has occurred? O Phoebe! I 
promise you that you will never again have cause 
for complaint. Never again while I live will you 
need companionship and love. From this day forth 
my sweet wife and my home shall be my first con- 
sideration.” 

“You don’t mean ?” 

“Yes, I do mean that I will give up this business 
that keeps me away from you all the time. I have 
been thinking of giving it up any way. I have 
begun to see that it is telling on my strength. Dr. 
Carmichael told me only yesterday that I would have 
to hold up or be held up. I didn’t mean to follow 
his advice though, but you see I had no idea of 
this,” and Paul looked at her pleadingly. 

But Phoebe did not notice; she was thinking of 
something else. 

“Why, where did you see Dr. Carmichael yes- 
terday?” she asked quickly. 

“I went to his office to see him about a little 


PHOEBE 


241 


trouble that I had been having; he said that I must 
take it easier, or I would break down,’' he answered. 

“Are you ill, Paul, and didn’t tell me?” Phoebe 
cried reproachfully. 

“No, I’m not ill. I just have not been quite well. 
I didn’t tell you anything about it because I knew 
well enough what you would say. So I went to the 
doctor and paid him for advice that I could have 
had free.” Paul looked tenderly at her as he spoke. 

Phoebe came and laid her cheek tenderly against 
his and said : “I wouldn’t have let you give up 
your beloved business to stay with me; but if the 
doctor says you must, why that is a different matter, 
and I will take it as an interposition of Providence 
in my favor. But, Paul, what will you do? You 
would die if you were not working at something.” 
Then she exclaimed ecstatically, “I know! We will 
go to the low country and plant rice!” 



BOOK V 


THE EVEN SONG. 


Grow old along with me! 

The best is yet to be, 

The last of life, for which the first 
Our times are in His hand 
Who saith, “A whole I planned, 
Youth shows but half; trust God: 
be afraid! 


was made : 


see all, nor 


— Browning. 




CHAPTER I 


Paul had always been a man to act quickly: his 
judgment was seldom at fault, his mind grasped a 
situation instantly. When Phoebe said, '‘We will 
go to the low country and plant rice,” he recog- 
nized at once that it was the thing to do. 

For the next few months he was very busy settling 
affairs with the mills and helping his successor to 
become accustomed to the work; but he did not 
forget the lesson that he had so dearly learned, and 
each day he was with Phoebe, either for dinner or 
in the afternoon, or in the evening. She bloomed 
out under his loving attention like a -late yet perfect 
rose, and the handsome man and the beautiful 
woman so often seen together were the admiration 
of Melrose. 

Maplewood was entailed in favor of Phoebe’s 
children, and could not be sold, so they decided to 
leave William and Hester in charge there. 

The boys were delighted at the idea of living in 
the country, and Paul was surprised to find that a 
great deal of his boyish store of information and 
enthusiasm came back with the prospect of working 
with the land once more. He found that much of 
the rice land that he had inherited from his father 
245 


PHOEBE 


246 

had grown up into woodland, but that the whole 
tract had increased in value since the great era of 
prosperity had come to the south. 

There was much, very much, to be done; but 
before another year had rolled over their heads 
they were comfortably settled at Waverly, as they 
called their attractive country home; and Paul was 
as deep in planting rice and in raising stock as he had 
been in the manufacture of cotton. There was this 
difference, however, that his home was the centre 
of all his operations, and he and Phoebe were to- 
gether the greater part of each day. 

Fortunately Aunt Allison’s legacy placed them 
above poverty, and Paul’s well planned investments 
commenced to bring in some returns, so that their 
living at least was secure. For the first two years 
they were satisfied just to keep things together. 

They have been at Waverly for four years. They 
have become a great factor for good in their county 
and are interested in everything that adds to the 
general uplift. They have started a mission for the 
negroes, which is doing good work, and in con- 
nection with it Phoebe is greatly interested in a 
home for helpless old persons that are yet able to 
use their hands. 

Last winter Richard Carey and his sweet, gentle 
wife, Minerva, visited Paul and Phoebe, and be- 
came greatly interested in the work of the inmates 
of this home. They and Richard’s mother have 


PHOEBE 


247 


made many contributions to the comfort of the poor 
old people, and have aided materially in disposing 
of the surplus products in the north. Richard has 
a position in the Congressional Library in Washing- 
ton, and he and Minerva have a charming apart- 
ment out in the northwestern section of the city. 
Paul and Phoebe called on them there last spring, 
when Paul went to Washington to interview the 
Bureau of Agriculture and Irrigation in regard to 
some progressive improvements that he was planning 
to install in the rice fields. 

Paul’s mother and sister still live in a little vine- 
covered cottage across the fields from Waverly, and 
having Paul and Phoebe and the boys near them 
has brought a great happiness into their quiet lives. 

Paul and Clay have been at a military school for 
two years, but this year they are to enter Princeton. 
They stand six feet two, and are handsome in 
person and noble in character. 

As they grow older the difference in their tastes 
has become marked, for Paul likes scientific while 
Clay prefers literary studies. They are absolutely 
devoted to each other, and are as much alike 
as two peas. Phoebe and a chosen few of their 
girl friends are the only persons that can tell them 
apart with any degree of certainty. 

Once or twice each year Clay writes to Phoebe 
soul-stirring letters from his far-away home. He 
has never contracted leprosy, and is full of earnest 
love for the poor souls among whom he ministers. 


PHOEBE 


248 

Eloise and her family make long visits to Waverly 
in the winter, and often Clifford runs down for a 
day’s shooting when the rice-birds are in season. 
Paul and Phoebe ride and drive a great deal, and 
they often run up to Melrose in the automobile for 
a visit. 

Sunny Side is just half way between Waverly 
and Melrose, and often Phoebe takes Annie and the 
children home with her for a few days. Bruce is 
one of the prominent doctors of the state. He has 
a young assistant, so, as he laughingly says, he is 
no longer tied down to pills and nostrums, but runs 
down to Waverly in his own automobile every once 
in a while. 

Phoebe’s life is full and sweet, and as for Paul, 
he is like a new man. He never tires of planning for 
his wife’s pleasure and happiness. 

He has been urged to run for the senate from 
his county, but he prefers to live quietly at home. 

To-day Phoebe and Paul are at Maplewood for a 
short stay. Phoebe is in the drawing-room, and in 
the gathering twilight, she is singing softly the sweet 
old hymn, “My Ain Countrie.” Outside, sitting 
on the piazza, under the first faint star of evening, 
Paul lifts his face to heaven and thanks God for his 
wife. 

And so we leave them, feeling sure that while 
standing together for the right neither need have 
any fear of falling. 




MAY 13 1912 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper | 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium 0> 
Treatment Date: 





DEC 


m 


BBKKEEI 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLO( 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 


\ 



